Hush, Little Sammy, Don't You Cry
by RobotRollCall
Summary: Big brother makes everything better. A series of one-shots that are completely gratuitous, brotherly love, h/c fluff. A mixture of Wee-chesters and grown-up Winchesters.
1. Promises Made

Mary Winchester was sitting on the sofa—comfortable as she could manage under the circumstances—waiting for John to get home. Dean was curled up at her side, a tiny hand trailing thoughtfully over the round swell of her belly.

"Are you okay, Mommy?" he asked. She had breathed her way mostly steadily through that last contraction, but there wasn't much that got past Dean.

"I'm okay, love," she assured him, rubbing his hair. "My tummy just hurts a little bit." Understatement of the year, but passable for a four year-old.

Dean scrunched up his face with concern. "But that's where Sammy is," he said worriedly. "Is _he_ okay?"

Mary leaned in and kissed the top of his head. "Don't worry, Sammy's fine. But he's running out of room in here," she said, patting her belly. "And he's moving around getting ready to come out."

Dean wrinkled his nose. "How's he gonna get out?" He frowned and poked at her belly button, as if confirming there were no visible exits.

"That part is a little tricky," Mary admitted. And a discussion for a later time. "But the doctor is going to help him. That's why we're waiting for Daddy to take us all to the hospital."

"Is he coming out today?" Dean asked eagerly, clapping his little hands when Mary nodded. "You hear that, Sammy?" he asked, addressing her belly and patting it gently. "You get to come out today! I'm really es-sited to meet you."

"I'm sure he's excited to meet you too, sweetheart," Mary said with a laugh.

"How's he gonna know which one's me?" Dean asked her. "He's never seened me before."

"No, but he's heard you talking to him," she said warmly. "He'll recognize your voice."

The front door burst open, revealing a slightly out-of-breath John Winchester. His eyes went immediately to his wife and son. "Mary?" he asked. "Are you okay? Is it—"

"I'm fine, John," she said, getting to her feet with a wince. "But it's definitely time."

He wrapped an arm around her to steady her, guiding her towards the door. "Hurry up, Daddy!" Dean insisted, tugging on his jacket. "We gotta go get Sammy out!"

* * *

Dean was playing on the floor under the eye of a watchful receptionist when the door to the room where Mommy was opened up. "Hey, Dean," his dad said with a smile. "Are you ready to come meet your brother?"

Dean immediately abandoned his toys, leaping to his feet and then into his father's arms. "Yeah!" he enthused. Daddy carried him into the room, and he saw Mommy lying in bed. She looked tired, and Dean wondered why. Maybe she was tired of waiting for Sammy too.

Even though Mommy looked tired, she still smiled when Daddy brought Dean over and sat him at the foot of her bed. "Hi, Mommy," he said. His eyes went to the little bundle in her arms. "Is that Sammy?"

"It sure is," she told him. "Why don't you come say hello?"

Carefully, Dean crawled up the bed until he was sitting next to her. She shifted her arms so he could see the tiny little red face wrapped up in the blankets. His mouth dropped open. "Hi, Sammy," he said. Little eyes blinked open, staring around the room until they settled on his face. Dean reached out a finger, wanting to touch him but not sure if he was allowed to. "D'you know who I am? I'm Dean. I'm your big brother." Sammy reached out a tiny fist, wrapping it around his finger. Dean grinned. Mommy was right—Sammy did know who he was.

He looked up at Mommy. "Can I hold him?"

"If you're very careful," she said. Daddy helped Dean settle back into the pillows by Mommy, and picked up Sammy and put him gently in Dean's lap.

Dean wrapped his arms around the baby, holding up his head like Daddy showed him. "He's awful little," he commented.

Daddy laughed and tousled his hair. "Don't worry, he'll get bigger. He'll be big enough to play with you before you know it."

"But I have to be careful right now 'cause he's so little, huh?" Dean asked. He'd never been a big brother before, so he wanted to make sure he was doing it right.

"That's right," Daddy said. "You've got to watch out for him."

Dean looked back down at Sammy who yawned and closed his eyes. Dean figured it was okay for Sammy to be tired already—since he was so little, it had to be hard work doing much of anything. That was probably why it took him so long to come out. "Go to sleep, Sammy," he crooned, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "An' don't worry about anything. I'm gonna take good care of you."


	2. Songs In The Dark

John came awake to the sound of Sam crying down the hall. Mary was fumbling for the edge of the blankets to throw them off, but he stilled her with a hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry, sweetie. I think it's my turn." With mumbled words of thanks, she rolled back into her pillow while John swung his feet out of bed. He'd forgotten how appreciative he'd been once Dean started sleeping through the night, but two months in, they were getting this routine down pretty good.

Quickly and quietly as he could, John made his way downstairs and to the fridge. Two bottles of milk were sitting in the door—he thought Mary had put a third one in before they went to bed, but his brain was pretty much running on sleepy these days—as long as there was one, he was fine.

Upstairs, he paused outside the nursery when he realized he couldn't hear Sam crying any more. He poked his head in carefully, not wanting to wake Sam if he'd fallen back asleep. Sam wasn't asleep, though, just distracted by the small figure crawling up into the rocking chair by his crib. As John watched, Dean balanced carefully on the chair, leaning in to place the missing third milk bottle on the mattress. Then, equally as carefully, he grabbed hold of the bars and clambered into the crib.

"Hey, Sammy," he whispered. Sam whimpered, and Dean stretched out until he was lying alongside his brother. "Shh," he soothed, reaching for the bottle he'd brought with him. "S'okay. You must be pretty hungry t' be makin' all that noise, huh? Here you go." He snaked one arm under Sam's head, propping it up a little, and brought the bottle forward to his mouth. Sam's whimpering stopped immediately and he latched on to the bottle. In the glow of the nightlight, John saw Dean smile. "At's better, huh, Sammy?"

A few minutes passed in silence, then Dean said, "You want me to sing you a song? Mommy always sings to me 'fore I go to sleep." He cleared his throat and began singing softly. "Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are. Uppa bove the wo'ld so high, like a dimon in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are."

Smiling to himself, John backed out of the doorway. As he turned back to his room, he heard Dean start again. "The issy, bissy spider climbed up the water spout…"

Back by the bed, he gently shook Mary awake. "John?" she mumbled. "What is it? I thought you were going to…"

"It's okay, Mar," he said, smiling warmly. "But you're going to want to come see this."

* * *

Dean stared at the ceiling, sighing as he listened to Sammy crying in the crib by the end of his bed. Mommy had told him not to worry, that it was her and Daddy's job to take care of Sammy when he cried at night, but Dean had always woken up anyway, waiting to make sure his little brother was okay before falling back asleep.

But Mommy wasn't here anymore, and Daddy…there was lots of stuff Daddy forgot to do now. And it made Dean sad when Sammy was sad, and he didn't think Daddy was coming, so he got out of bed and padded over to the crib. "Just a minute, Sammy," he whispered between the bars. "I'll be right back." In the kitchen, he realized another one of the things Daddy had forgotten to do tonight was make more milk for Sammy. Dean chewed on his lip, contemplating the inside of the fridge. There was stuff that was just for Daddy to drink, and an apple and some macaroni left from supper that Sammy couldn't eat 'cause he didn't have any teeth yet. There was a carton of milk for Dean, and he knew it was different than the special milk for Sammy, but if that's all there was…

The pitiful crying coming from the bedroom made up his mind, and he grabbed the milk and poured it into a bottle, only spilling a little bit. Tomorrow, he'd get Daddy to show him how to make Sammy's special milk. "It's okay, Sammy, it's okay," he whispered, hurrying back into the room. This crib was shorter than the one from their house, and he climbed in quickly, sliding in next to his brother. "Shh, here you go," he said, pulling Sammy close to him and giving him the bottle. He didn't say anything while Sammy drank, just rubbed his tummy. He didn't say much to anybody really, not since Mommy went away, but Sammy needed him, and he felt a little bit better talking to him.

Sammy finished the bottle and let it roll off to the side with a whine. He made a miserable-sounding squeaky noise and sniffled, and Dean could sense more tears were on the way. "Wha's wrong, Sammy?" he asked, not letting up the gentle rubbing of his belly. He made another pathetic little noise and Dean sighed. "Yeah. You miss Mommy too, don' you?" He fought back a sniffle of his own. It probably wouldn't help Sammy if he started crying too. "Me too. She was a good mommy. I wish she'd come back."

He pulled Sammy closer and hugged him—carefully, but close, nuzzling into his soft hair. "Don't cry, Sammy, please," he begged. "I don't know how to make it better that Mommy's gone." Whenever Sammy was sad, Dean always knew how to fix it. But not this time.

"I'm gonna sing you a special song, okay?" he whispered at last. "This was…this was Mommy's special song for me." He would sing to Sammy a lot, but he'd never sung him this song before—it was special between him and Mommy. "Maybe Mommy had a special song for you too, but she didn' tell me what it was. So I'm gonna share mine with you."

"Hey, Jude, don' make it bad. Take a sad song, an' make it better…" It felt kind of good sharing his song with Sammy—he thought Mommy would have liked it, anyway. It didn't make him sad like he thought it would—if he closed his eyes, he could pretend Mommy was singing with him. "Remember to letter into your heart…" Sammy's whimpering stopped and he snuggled against Dean, his breathing evening out. "Then you can sta-art to make it better…"


	3. Singer's Salvage And Babysitting

Bobby didn't mind helping out a new hunter—he really didn't—but he got a feeling that somewhere in here, a line had been crossed. Granted, it was probably his own fault for not actually defining a line in the first place, but who'd have ever thought this was one he'd need? There was a baby, and it was in his kitchen. And it was crying. Give him a wendigo any day.

When he'd offered John Winchester his help, he'd meant more in the line of research—not baby-sitting while John checked out the local university's oddly impressive occult collection. At least he'd be back in a couple of hours, but that didn't solve the immediate problem of the crying child in the baby carrier on the floor.

"I don't suppose you'd just go on back to sleep, huh?" he asked hopefully, nudging the carrier with his boot to start it rocking. The kid had been asleep since John brought him in, and Bobby figured the kitchen was the best place for him—that was where he was, and he knew at least enough to know you didn't leave a baby alone. That was about the extent of his knowledge. Should he pick him up? He should pick him up. Maybe that would help.

Nope. Bobby had seen summoning spells less complicated than whatever was strapping the kid in there, and by the time he got him out, he was practically howling. "C'mon, kid, what do you need?" he asked—a little desperately—patting him uncertainly on the back.

"Sammy doesn't talk yet," a voice from the door informed him. He looked up to see the other kid…Dean, who was watching him from the living room door with faint disapproval.

"Yeah, I knew that, I—never mind. You know what's wrong with him?"

Dean crossed his arms. "When he cries like that, it means he needs his diaper changed," he replied, looking up at Bobby expectantly.

"His—" Crap. A wave of panic washed over him, and he stared at the weeping boy in his arms in horror.

He could practically feel Dean rolling his eyes as he let out an exasperated sigh. "I'll do it," he said, stepping forward and holding out his arms. Not sure what else to do, Bobby handed the boy down to his brother who narrowed his eyes in a _look_ before taking him. That was just great. He was being judged (and found lacking) by a five year old.

"Dee-ee," whined Sammy, nearly too big for his big brother to hold on to, but wrapping his arms around him anyway.

"Ssh, s'okay, Sammy," Dean said, readjusting his grip and walking back to the living room. "I'll get you fixed up."

Curious, Bobby followed. Not that he ever intended to babysit ever again, but maybe he should know how to do this. Dean walked on through the living room, grabbing one of the bags John had left by the couch and dragging it behind him into the bathroom. He eyed the bathmat critically before deciding it met whatever standards he had for cleanliness and laid Sammy down on top of it. He rummaged in the bag for a diaper and wipes, then gave Sammy a semi-stern glare. "You done this time?" he asked him. "You'd better not pee on me again." Sammy squeaked at him.

Bobby wondered how many times Dean had done this—he didn't think this was the normal skill set for kids his age—but he seemed confident, and Sammy seemed comfortable, moving where Dean nudged and no longer crying. He chewed on his foot and watched his brother curiously as Dean stood and deposited the dirty diaper and wipes in the trash can, then stood on his tiptoes to wash his hands in the sink.

"That's better, huh?" Dean said, kneeling down to fasten on a clean diaper while Sammy babbled cheerfully. "When you get big enough to start walking, we're gonna teach you how to use the bathroom like a big boy, okay?"

"Ya!" Sammy agreed, kicking his feet happily and nearly catching Dean in the nose. Dean dodged the kicks with practiced ease and dove forward to blow a raspberry on Sammy's exposed stomach, making him shriek with delight. Bobby had to smile a little bit at that.

Dean grinned. "All done," he declared, and Sammy laughed again, wriggling on the rug. Dean looked up at Bobby. "That's how you change a diaper," he asserted, looking like a teacher who'd just finished giving a demonstration. A mischievous glint sparkled in his eye. "When he makes another stinky one, I'll let you practice."


	4. It Was A Dark And Stormy Night

Dean woke to the simultaneous sounds of a clap of thunder and a startled cry. "S'mmy?" he mumbled, half-asleep. "Y'kay?"

"Dee?" Sammy moaned in the darkness.

"It's okay, squirt, it's just thunder."

Another roll of thunder crashed, accompanied by a sudden flash of lightning. "Dee!" Sammy screamed.

Dean was already swinging out of bed before he noticed the outline of Dad in the doorway. "You boys alright?"

"Yessir," Dean said. "The thunder just scared Sammy."

The tired lines in Dad's face softened, and he took a step into the room. "Don't worry, son," he said, running a hand over Sammy's hair. "It's just a bunch of noise up in the sky." He patted the toddler's cheek. "You boys go back to sleep." Then he was gone.

Dean lay back down, waited a minute, and wasn't surprised when a little hand patted the side of his face. He rolled over to see Sammy standing beside his bed. "Dad's right, Sammy. Thunder's nothing to be worried about."

A flash of lightning illuminated a tear-stained little face. "I scared, Dee," Sammy whispered.

Dean lifted the corner of his blanket, and Sammy scrambled up and in, needing no further invitation. Dean made sure the blanket was tucked around them both as Sammy burrowed against Dean's chest. He smiled. "Better?" Beneath the blankets, he felt Sammy nod.

Thunder roared again and a soft whine rose from under the covers, Sammy's little fists clenching tightly around Dean's arm. "Shh, shh, don't worry, Sammy," Dean whispered, wriggling his arm free of Sammy's hands to wrap it around his little brother instead. "You just stay here with me and you'll be okay."


	5. Roadhouse Blues

Dean knew that his dad hunted monsters, but it had never occurred to him that other people did that too. It made sense when he thought about it—there were lots of people who were teachers and doctors and stuff—so why not more monster hunters? And this place (Harvell's Roadhouse, he read off the sign) must be where they all hung out.

It was dusty and kind of old-looking, and so were most of the people inside. As the door swung shut behind them, Dean was faced with a sea of leather and denim and grizzled, scowling faces. He caught more than a few raised eyebrows at the sight of him and Sammy, but they were followed by shrugs after looking at his dad. They must not get a lot of kids here.

"Bill!" Dad called, waving at a man behind the bar. He turned to Dean. "Keep an eye on your brother, okay, Dean-o? I've got to talk to Mr. Harvell for a while. Why don't you sit over there?" He pointed to an empty table in the corner.

Dean started to move and found himself held in place by the three year-old wrapped around his leg. Dean thought the place was pretty cool—maybe he could talk someone here into telling him some of the stories that Dad wouldn't—but the look on Sammy's face was inching rapidly towards terror. It was an awful lot of strangers to be dealing with, Dean guessed, and they were all kind of scary-looking. (And from as close to the ground as Sammy was, they were pretty frickin' huge, too.)

"You okay, Sammy?" he asked. The only response he got was a tightening of the grip on his leg and Sammy sticking his thumb in his mouth. He walked/limped/dragged his way over to the table his dad had pointed out, one hand on top of Sammy's head the whole way, and managed to coax him off his leg and into a chair. "Okay," he said, digging in his backpack and coming up with a coloring book for distraction. "You start coloring and I'll be right back, okay?" Sammy's eyes widened in panic and he flung his arms around Dean's neck. "No, Sammy, leggo my neck, I'll be right back, I promise." Sammy whimpered and clutched tighter. "I gotta pee, man," Dean said.

Sammy didn't budge. Dean sighed. "Okay, you can come with me and wait by the door, how's that?"

"'kay," Sammy whispered, sliding off the chair. He stuck his thumb back in his mouth and wrapped his free hand around Dean's.

Dean really would have waited until Sammy was a little more settled first, but, well, he _really_ had to go, so he made it as fast as he could. Apparently, it wasn't fast enough—he came out to find Sammy tucked up under the little table between the Men's and the Ladies' rooms, wide eyes welling with tears.

"Sammy, I'm sorry," he said, kneeling down quickly in front of him. "Are you okay?"

"I don' like it, Dee," he moaned.

"Yeah, it's kind of a scary place, huh?" he agreed, patting him on the knee.

"Ev'ybody's looking at me. I don' like it," he repeated.

"How about we go outside?" Dean asked. Dad had told them to sit at the table, but he'd also told him to watch Sammy, who was clearly not doing well in here. "There's no scary people out there."

Sammy nodded hurriedly and reached out his arms so Dean could pull him out from under the table. He hoisted him up and carried him outside, ignoring some of the smirks following them out. If these guys thought it was funny that Sammy was scared, then maybe they weren't so cool after all.

They found a rocking chair on the side of the porch, and after a little bit of rocking, Sammy was feeling better. Dean started telling him about the cars in the parking lot, and he dried his eyes and eventually took his thumb out of his mouth. They were far enough away from the door not to be bothered by people coming and going, and so it was a surprise when a woman walked over to them.

"Hey there," she said with a warm smile.

Sammy scooted back into Dean, one hand fisting in his jacket, and the other returning his thumb to his mouth. One-on-one, he usually did pretty good with new people, but Dean figured the room full of scary people still had him spooked.

The woman must have sensed it too, because she sat down on the bench across from them, even though there was another chair beside them. "Don't worry, I don't bite," she assured them. Sammy didn't look convinced. "You're John Winchester's boys, right? I'm Ellen." She lifted her arms to show them the baby she was carrying. "This is Joanna Beth. It gets a little noisy in there for her to sleep sometimes."

Having explained her presence, she smiled again but said no more, her attention back on the baby. Sammy relaxed some when it was clear she was going to leave them alone, and so Dean went on with his monologue. He noticed Sammy's attention starting to wander, and smiled when he caught him stealing glances at the little girl. "You wanna see the baby?" he asked softly. Sammy considered, then nodded. Dean nudged him forward off the chair, slipping an arm over his shoulder as he slid down behind him.

"Miss Ellen, Sammy was wondering if he could see your baby," Dean asked as they approached her.

"Sure, sweetie," Ellen smiled, and Dean got the feeling she'd been waiting for him to ask.

Sammy inched forward, hand still clenched in Dean's jacket, but he leaned in curiously. Dean knew he'd never seen a baby in real life before, and he grinned as Sammy stared in fascination at the tiny little face and waving fingers. He remembered when Sammy was that small, and figured she had to be a pretty new baby.

"She's vewy little," Sammy declared at last.

"Babies usually are. You want to say hi?" Ellen asked him with a smile.

"Hi, J'wana Bef," Sammy said. She squeaked and Sammy looked back up at Dean.

Dean smiled. "She says hi back. She's too young to know how to talk yet," he explained.

"How come she can't talk?" Sammy asked.

"She's gotta learn," Dean said. "Just like you did."

"But I know howwa talk."

"Not when you were a baby, you didn't."

"I'm not a baby, I'm a big boy!" Sammy huffed.

"Well, yeah, you are now, but you used to be a baby," Dean said with a grin.

"Weally?"

"Yep," Dean confirmed. "A little bitty baby, just like her."

Sammy stared at Joanna Beth for a long moment. "So, is she gonna gwow up an' be big like me an' Dean?" he asked Ellen.

"Mm-hmm," Ellen said. Sammy considered this, still deep in thought when he agreed to follow Ellen back inside for a snack. Dean walked between Sammy and the view of the room at large, but soon realized there was no need. Sammy was on a quest for information now, too busy trying to learn everything Dean knew about babies to remember his earlier fear.


	6. Better Late Than Never

Evelyn slid the last of the books onto the shelf—she was running out of things to straighten. She cast a glance at the forlorn little figure sitting at the table and shook her head. Should she try calling Mr. Winchester again? Three times so far without any luck didn't promise much success for a fourth call. There had to be some sort of policy for this sort of thing—parents had been late before, but she'd never waited more than twenty minutes after pickup time. Poor little Sammy had been sitting here for an hour.

She was really starting to feel for the poor kid—he was quiet and kind of shy, and all the other kids had a three week head-start on getting to know each other. His face had fallen a little more with each car that pulled in and out of the parking lot, and by the time he was alone on the playground, tears were leaking from the corners of his eyes. Evelyn honestly didn't know what to do. She was just a student teacher, for crying out loud—she wasn't even supposed to be left here by herself! Once the tears had started, a hug had seemed like the obvious first move, but Sammy had just hunched farther into his over-large coat, not flinching away, but clearly not wanting comfort from a stranger. He did dry his tears and come back inside at the offer of a snack, but expressed no interest in any further interaction.

What was she supposed to do? As far as Sammy knew, he'd been abandoned, and there wasn't anything she could say to change his mind. And tonight was her turn to supervise the study lounge and she needed to get back to the dorm. Obviously, she couldn't leave a four year-old unattended, and she was pretty sure it was considered kidnapping if she took him anywhere. Evelyn sighed. She was going to have to call the superintendent.

"I'll be right back, Sammy," she told him, moving towards the office off the front of the classroom. He nodded unhappily, not looking up from the circle he was tracing on the table with his finger. He still hadn't taken his coat off, as if doing so would be admitting no one was coming for him.

Evelyn shook her head as she stepped into the office, feeling very uncharitable toward Mr. Winchester. What sort of parent didn't come to pick up their son? She was pretty sure from the file that there wasn't a Mrs. Winchester, and in her mind, that made it that much worse. His dad was all the kid had, and he couldn't take the time to come get him? Her hand was on the phone when there was a knock at the door.

"S'cuse me, are you Miss Martin?" A boy with dirty-blond hair and worried green eyes was hovering inside the door.

"Yes," Evelyn said. "Do you need help?" He was too old to be in any of the classes at this building, but he'd probably come from the elementary school down the block.

"I'm looking for Sammy Winchester," the boy said. "He's in your class, and he wasn't at home when I got there, so I thought—"

At home? "You're his brother?"

"Uh-huh. I'm Dean. Is he still here?" His eyes darted nervously around the room, like he expected to see Sammy in one of the corners.

"Yes, he's still here," Evelyn assured him, and his worried frown creased up into a relieved smile. Wasn't that sweet? "Is your father running late?"

"Uh…Yeah, he, uh, got stuck at work," Dean said, a little too quickly. Evelyn pursed her lips thoughtfully. He had forgotten. "Can I take Sammy home?"

"He's in here," she said, getting up and walking back to the classroom. "Sammy? Someone's here for you."

Sammy looked up gloomily from the table, and she noted with a twinge that he'd started crying again. His watery eyes landed on Dean and suddenly his face lit up like Christmas had come early. "Dean!" he cried. He flew across the room and collided with his brother's stomach with an audible _whump_.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean replied, patting him on the back. He pulled himself free and knelt down to put himself on eye level with Sammy. He smiled fondly and wiped the tears from his brother's cheeks with his sleeve. "You okay, big guy?"

Sammy's little face crumpled again and his lower lip started to quiver. "Daddy forgotted me, Dean," he wailed miserably, and Evelyn's heart just broke.

"Hey, no, c'mere," Dean said gently, pulling Sammy into a hug as the tears started to fall again. Evelyn heard a wet snuffle from where Sammy's face was buried in Dean's jacket, and suddenly felt she was intruding on something private. "Hey, it's okay," Dean soothed. "He wouldn't forget about you, Sammy. Probably just his watch broke or something, and he doesn't know what time it is."

Evelyn smiled sadly at the feeble lie, and Dean briefly caught her eye in a silent plea not to call him on it. It seemed he was used to filling in for his father's absenteeism. Sammy, however, looked up at his brother hopefully. "You fink so?" he asked.

"Yeah," Dean said, ruffling Sammy's hair. He stood up and put a hand on his shoulder. "Tell you what, though—since it might take him a while to get it fixed, how about from now on, I come get you after school, and we can walk home together?"

"Okay," Sammy said, brightening. He wrapped his upper body around Dean's arm. "I like walking wif you."

Evelyn's heart melted just a little bit. The father obviously needed some work, but little Sammy had a big brother that came through in spades. "That should be alright. Class finishes up at four," she told Dean.

"I'll be here then," he told her seriously, and she believed him. "C'mon, Sammy, you ready to go?"

"Uh huh," he nodded and grabbed Dean's hand. Safe in his brother's grip, Sammy was all smiles again, and Evelyn decided that if anyone ever stared at her with even half the adoration Sammy's eyes held for Dean, she'd have no choice but to marry them on the spot. As they headed for the door, Sammy broke into a mile-a-minute ramble that she got the feeling she'd be seeing a lot more of once he broke out of his shell in class. "We got fruit snacks today at school, Dean, and chocolate milk for lunch! An' we had story time an' I got to pick the story, an' nen we painted wif our fingers an' I made a picture for you…"


	7. Blankets And Bribery

Dean's head came up from his comic book at the sound of a pitiful, rattling cough. The couch shook slightly as Sammy coughed himself awake with enough force for Dean to race over and slide the trash can up against the sofa. "You alright?" he asked, rubbing Sammy's back gently. "You need to throw up again?"

Sammy shook his head minutely. Five years old and he sounded like he'd been smoking two packs a day for twenty years as he hacked again into the cushion.

"Lemme get you something to drink," Dean said, squeezing his shoulder. "You want some apple juice?"

"M'kay," Sammy rasped.

Dean handed him a juice box, and he sipped at it slowly as Dean checked his temperature. "You're still kinda warm," he said, hand on Sammy's forehead.

"'m cold," Sammy argued.

Dean tucked the blanket tighter around Sammy's shoulder. "I know. You think you could eat some soup if I made you some?"

Sammy shrugged non-committally and coughed again. Dean ruffled his hair and went back into the kitchen. He found a can of soup and a pot and started heating and stirring, casting frequent glances back over his shoulder. Sammy had drawn himself up under his blanket, huddled in a sniffling, teary little ball of misery on one end of the couch.

Dean dropped the spoon down into the soup with a clatter and sprinted back to the sofa as the sound of retching started up again. Sammy was throwing up before he got there, but fortunately he had leaned off the couch enough to hit the trash can. They hadn't been so lucky last night when Sammy first got sick, and though Dean had cleaned up everything he could find, the smell of vomit still lingered in the bedroom, which was why his little brother was on the couch.

"It's okay, Sammy, it's okay," Dean soothed, rubbing gentle circles on his back. When the gagging stopped, Sammy collapsed back onto the couch with a tired sigh, and Dean grabbed a Kleenex and wiped his mouth.

Sammy opened red, watery eyes and blinked forlornly up at his brother. "I don't feel good, Dee," he moaned.

Dean huffed a small laugh. "Yeah, with all the barfing, I could tell."

"I didn't mean t' frow up on the floor," Sammy said sadly, rubbing at his leaky eyes.

"Hey, it's okay," Dean assured him, patting his back. "And you hit the trash can this time—your aim is getting better." The corner of Sammy's mouth twitched up just a little bit, and Dean smiled. "You think you could keep some soup down?"

"I can try," Sammy said, his voice cracking.

Dean returned to the kitchen and came back with a bowl of soup and a hot water bottle. "Here you go," he said, sitting down on the sofa. He pulled Sammy and his blanket up into his lap, tucking the water bottle inside the blanket with him. "Something to keep you warm on the outside, and soup to keep you warm on the inside." He balanced the bowl in one hand and held the spoon in the other, and he got Sammy to eat about a third of the soup before he moaned and turned his head away.

"Alright, good job," he said. He started to ease Sammy back onto the couch, but he whimpered and nuzzled his face into Dean's chest. "Hey, it's okay, Sammy, I'll be right back. I just wanna put the soup away so I don't spill it on you, okay?" Sammy whined again, but after a second he rolled off onto the couch. "I'll be right back," Dean repeated, and hurried into the kitchen.

Now that Sammy had eaten something, Dean figured he should probably take some more medicine. He peered at the tiny writing on the bottle, counted back in his head, and decided it was safe to give him some more. "Alright, Sammy," he said, crouching in front of the sofa. Sammy opened his eyes and Dean held up the little plastic cup. "Medicine time."

"Mm-mm," Sammy said, shutting his eyes again.

"You need to drink it, Sammy."

"No," Sammy croaked, pulling his blanket up over his head, followed by a muffled "I don't want it."

"C'mon, Sammy, it'll make you feel better," Dean cajoled.

"It's yucky," Sammy protested.

Okay, well, he couldn't really argue with that. Dean sighed, considering. He looked around the room, hoping to spot a new way to approach it, and he smiled when his eyes landed on the freezer. Between all the coughing and puking, Sammy's throat had to be pretty sore…

"If you take the medicine, you can have a popsicle," he offered.

For moment, there was no response. Then the blanket inched down until one eye was uncovered, staring suspiciously at Dean. "A orange one?"

Gotcha. "Sure. But you have to drink this first."

Slowly, the blanket was pulled down until his face was uncovered again, and Sammy opened his mouth. Dean tipped the contents of the cup into it, and Sammy swallowed and grimaced. He scrunched up his face in distaste, then opened his eyes. "I want my popsicle now," he demanded.

Dean chuckled. "I'll go get it." He stood and returned a moment later with the promised orange popsicle and a stack of books. "You want me to read you a story?" he offered, and Sammy's eyes brightened.

He sat down and settled Sammy back into his lap, re-tucking the blanket around Sammy's toes and repositioning the water bottle against his chest. Sammy coughed again and started sucking happily on his popsicle, snuggling contentedly against his big brother. Dean suspected his shirt would be sticky with popsicle juice by the time Sammy fell asleep, but he didn't mind. "Which one you want first?"

Sammy reached out and tapped a book. "Can you do the voices?" he asked hopefully, ignoring the snot that was starting to drip from his nose.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Don't I always?" he replied, swiping at Sammy's nose with another tissue before he started to read. "The year is 50 BC. Gaul is entirely occupied by the Romans. Well, not entirely…"


	8. The Toothless Wonder

The first move of the school year had Dean starting up fifth grade after fall break in a new school, and he wasn't sure how he felt about this one. He'd been at the top of the elementary totem pole in the last town, and here fifth grade was the bottom of the middle school ladder. It wasn't so much the change in status that bothered him as it was the fact that he was on a different campus altogether from his brother and he couldn't keep an eye on Sammy any more.

Sam had complained about the separation from Dean, but Dad had told him he would be fine and that was the end of that. And, true, the first week seemed to have gone okay, but Dean still rushed over to the elementary campus as soon as the bell rang every day to pick him up and make sure he was alright. And today, his suspicions that something was going to go wrong seemed to be confirmed when he arrived and didn't see Sam waiting on the steps.

"Sam?" he called, glancing around. No need to worry just yet, he told himself. Maybe he was on the playground. He headed for the side of the building and the tension eased out of his shoulders when he saw his brother sitting under a tree by the bike rack. "Sam!" he called again. "Whatcha doing over here?"

Sam had been sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest and his head down, but he snapped it up when Dean called his name. Crap, he'd been crying—the slump in his shoulders would have given that away, even if Dean couldn't see his red eyes from here. He growled. One good thing about being in middle school at least was that now he was automatically scarier to whatever grade school punk he was about to have to beat up.

Before he could say anything, though, Sam had already jumped to his feet, dashing across the space between them and flinging his arms around Dean's middle with a sob. "Hey, hey, whoa," Dean said, swallowing his anger down for later. "What happened?" He pulled out of Sam's embrace, stepping back and taking his face with one hand, turning it carefully to scan for bruises or bleeding but finding none. "Did somebody hurt you? Are you okay?"

Sam shook his head miserably, and Dean wasn't sure which question that was supposed to answer. "Dean, there's something really wrong, I need to go to the hospital," he said shakily.

"The hospital? What's wrong? Are you sick?"

"Dean, I don't wanna die!" Sam wailed and collapsed against Dean's chest again.

"You're not gonna die, Sammy," he soothed, rubbing his back. He pulled Sam back—more gently this time—and knelt down so they were on eye level. "I promise, okay?" He reached up and cupped Sam's face with one hand, brushing tears away with his thumb. "Just tell me what happened."

Sam hiccupped, swallowed, and wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. "Look," he whispered and he opened his mouth, jiggling one of his front teeth with his tongue.

"Your tooth is loose?" Dean asked. Sam nodded and wiped at his eyes again. No further explanation seemed to be forthcoming. "And?" Dean prompted. The tooth was obviously upsetting his brother, but Dean wasn't following the train of thought to why.

"It's gonna fall out," Sam said softly, fearfully.

"Yeah…" Dean said, still lost, and that seemed to be the wrong thing to say as Sam's eyes filled again. "But it's okay, it's supposed to do that," he added.

"What?" Sam blinked, surprised.

"Yeah, man, everybody's teeth do that." That clearly wasn't what Sam had been expecting to hear. Dean sighed. "Why don't you tell me what happened?"

Sam drew in a shaky breath. "Ryan Millican said that if my tooth was coming loose, it was gonna fall out, and then all the other ones would fall out and I wouldn't have any teeth, and then my hair and my fingernails would all fall off and then I would die!" His voice cracked with barely concealed panic at the end.

Dean blinked. Huh. Well, that was new. Looks like there was somebody who needed beating up after all. "Sammy, that's not gonna happen," he said. He wanted to laugh—just a little bit—at how ridiculous that sounded, but he kept his face reassuringly serious.

"Really?" Sam asked hopefully, sniffling.

"Really," Dean declared. "What's really gonna happen is, your tooth will fall out, but then you'll grow another one. Like I said, everybody's teeth do that. The baby ones come out, and then you get big ones and you keep those. Your hair and your fingernails stay right where they are, and you don't die. I promise," he added, squeezing Sam's shoulder.

"But why did Ryan—"

"Ryan is an idiot, and he was saying that to be mean. You don't listen to anything else he tells you." Sam sniffled again. "You trust me more than Ryan, right?" Sam nodded instantly, and Dean couldn't help smiling at that. "So don't worry, then. You'll be fine."

Sam nodded. "Okay." He smiled. "Thanks."

Dean grinned and ruffled his hair. "You ready to go?"

"Yeah," Sam said, wiping his nose one last time and picking up his backpack. "Does it hurt when it falls out?" he asked as they walked.

"It might just a little bit," Dean said with a shrug. "Like getting pinched or something."

"That's not too bad," Sam decided.

"Nope," Dean agreed. "And afterwards you've got this cool hole in your mouth 'til the new one grows in, and you can fit a straw in it, or spit water out through it if you practice."

"Cool!" Sam said, his eyes widening with delight.

Dean smiled broadly and slung one arm over Sam's shoulder. He kept half of his mind on their conversation, while the other half worked out the logistics of showing up early tomorrow and finding a quiet place to have a...discussion with this Ryan kid—just to make sure this kind of misunderstanding didn't happen again.


	9. He Gave Me A 45!

Sam had never been scared of monsters. He'd been scared of things like thunder, or clowns, or this phase he went through when he was five where he was afraid to get in the bathtub in case there were sharks. But as long as Dean was around, the thought of monsters in the dark had never bothered him—his big brother was there to protect him.

But that was before he read Dad's journal. Now he knew monsters were real, and that they were something to be scared of. And no matter how big and strong Dean was, some of the things he'd learned about over Christmas were bigger and stronger. So now every time they moved to a new motel, one of the first things he did was check the closets. Every night he'd find a way to check under the beds too, pretending like he'd dropped something, or was looking for his socks. When he slept, his arms no longer hung off the bed, and little noises in the dark jolted him awake.

The first night at this motel, Sam hadn't been able to sleep at all. The noises he kept hearing weren't ones he could reconcile with the sounds of the heater, or the ceiling settling, or the wind. He was unable to write off the way the closet door swung back and forth on loose hinges as purely imagination. And he couldn't shake the feeling something was watching him. So he watched it, eyes not moving from the closet until sunlight crept back into the room. The second night, he couldn't do it. He was too tired to stay awake all night again.

"Dad?" he asked hesitantly.

"Yeah, Sammy?" His dad looked up from writing in his journal.

"I, um…I think…"

"What is it?"

He felt silly—he was nine now, and too old to be scared of stupid stuff like this…But monsters were real, and Dad hunted them. If there really was one there, he'd know what to do. "I'm scared there's a monster in my closet," he said at last.

Dad looked at him for a long moment. Sam knew he was taking in the weariness in his posture and his eyes, realizing why it was there. He looked back at his journal, tapping his finger thoughtfully on the table, and Sam felt relief that he was being taken seriously. Dad must be thinking about what kind of monster it could be, and how to get rid of it.

"Okay," Dad said at last with a nod. He stood and walked over to his duffel on the couch to look for something. "Here."

Sam blinked. Dad was…handing him a gun?

"Go on, Sammy, take it. You know how to use it," Dad said, holding it out.

Sam swallowed. Technically, yeah, he did know how to use it, and it terrified him only slightly less than whatever might be in the closet. "Dad, I…" He shook his head, taking a step back.

Dad stepped closer, took Sam's hand and slapped the gun down into it. Sam flinched. "You can do it, son," he promised. His eye flicked up to the bathroom door where Dean was standing brushing his teeth and back down to Sam. "It's time you started learning how to take care of things yourself." On the last word, his eyes went back up to Dean, who turned back into the bathroom. Sam got it. If there was anything there, Dean wasn't supposed to help him.

"Dad," he whispered.

Dad patted his shoulder and gave him what Sam guessed was supposed to be an encouraging smile. "Time for bed, Sammy. You'll be fine." He sat down again, and after a moment, Sam returned to his room.

He sat down on his bed and stared at the gun in his lap for a long time. He wished he'd never read Dad's stupid journal! He just wanted to be safe. He wanted back the feeling like his dad and his brother could protect him. He was tired of being scared all the time.

"Y'all right, Sammy?" Dean's voice said softly. Sam didn't realize he'd started crying until he looked up to see the blurry outline of his brother sitting on the other bed. He shook his head slowly. Dean had already seen him crying—no point pretending now.

"All this monster stuff is really getting to you, isn't it?" he asked. "It's a lot to take in, huh?" Sam nodded, and Dean got up and came to sit beside him on his bed. "Why haven't you said anything? I know you've been kinda jumpy since Christmas."

Sam looked down at the covers. "I didn't want you to think I was being a baby," he mumbled, wiping at his watery eyes.

"Aw, Sammy," Dean sighed. "Monsters are real, dude—you're totally allowed to be scared." Sam flicked an eye up to meet Dean's. "Really," Dean assured him, flinging an arm around his shoulder.

Sam shifted under Dean's arm. He figured since he was supposed to be a hunter, he had to be tough all the time now, like Dad. But if Dean said it was okay to be scared…

"Scoot over, kid," Dean said, shoving him to the side of the bed and grabbing the gun from his lap.

"What're you doing?"

"Well, we're not both gonna fit in here if you hog the middle. Scootch." He wriggled under the covers, tucking Sam's gun underneath his pillow.

He was staying in bed with Sam? Sam never felt safer than when he was sleeping next to Dean—for months now, all he'd wanted to do was curl up in the shelter of his big brother, but he figured he was too old for that now, and he'd been too embarrassed to ask. He snuggled under the covers, and after a moment, moved back toward the middle to curl against Dean's side. When Dean stretched his arm out over him, Sam smiled and shut his eyes. Maybe he _was_ being a little kid, but Dean was there and he didn't care.

A thought crossed his mind as he heard Dean flick off the lamp. "What if there's really something there?" he whispered.

"Then I'll take care of it," Dean assured him. "Go to sleep, Sammy."

And Sam did.

He woke later to the creak of the closet door, and started to sit up when Dean grabbed his pillow and pinned it down over Sam's head. Confused, he struggled for a moment, then went completely still as two semi-muffled shots rang out from somewhere above his head. A second later, Dean's hand was on his back. "It's okay, Sammy," he said softly. "I got it."

Sam remained under the pillow until he was sure he had his breathing under control, then peeked out. "There was really something there?" he whispered.

Dean nodded. "Some kind of gremlin. You got good instincts, man."

Somehow, Sam didn't find that terribly reassuring, and he started shaking. Dean tucked the gun back under the pillow and wrapped both of his arms around Sam, pulling him into a strong hug. "I know, Sammy, I know," he soothed. "It's okay to be scared, but you don't have to worry, alright? Because I am always gonna be right here to keep you safe."

Sam's shivers started to subside. It really shouldn't have surprised him that Dean was able to protect him from monsters—he kept him safe from everything else. The monsters were still pretty darn scary, but he felt better anyway. "I know." He drew a deep breath. "Thanks, Dean."

He felt Dean ruffle his hair. "Get some sleep, Sammy. Nothing else is gonna bother you now."


	10. Little Boy Lost

"And I'm tellin' _you_ that it's gone on long enough!" Bobby snapped into the phone. He was straining to keep from shouting—not out of any consideration for the pig-headed idjit on the other end of the line, but for the twelve year-old sitting in the next room. He took a deep breath. "Listen, the kid's worried sick, John. The longer this goes on, the less he eats and the less he sleeps. Hell, he ain't even interested in going to school any more, and that should tell you something right there. Don't you think Dean's learned his lesson? It's been almost two months. If you ain't bringing him back soon, at least let me tell Sam where he really is."

Bobby growled as John started to respond and cut him off. "You've got a week, Winchester. Then I'm tellin' the kid the truth." He slammed the phone back down on the receiver less forcefully than he would have liked.

A few seconds later, "Uncle Bobby?" asked a small voice from the door. Bobby turned to see Sam standing in the door to the kitchen. He was staring up at him with eyes less hopeful than they used to be. "Has Dad found Dean yet?"

Bobby sighed and put a hand on Sam's shoulder, steering him back into the kitchen. "Not yet, son."

Sam nodded, and Bobby saw a little more hope die in those tired eyes before he looked down and they were covered by his hair. Bobby nudged him toward the table and returned to the stove, dishing up the breakfast he'd been working on when John called. It was looking a little over done, but it wasn't like it mattered—Sam probably wasn't going to eat it anyway.

It had been over a month since John had dropped him off, and the kid had been looking worse every day. Apparently, John felt no need to tell his youngest that his brother was safely tucked away in a boys' home—no, he thought it was better to tell Sam that Dean was lost on a hunt. Sam was under the impression that John had left him with Bobby in order to more efficiently look for Dean, when really, John was letting Dean stew for a while, and had found a couple weeks of Sam without his big brother to be more than he cared to handle.

Naturally, Sam had worried at first, but understood that his dad could hunt better alone. He had been sure that Dad and Dean would turn up any time while he waited at Bobby's. As the days stretched into weeks, Sam's worries had grown. Maybe he couldn't help hunt as well as Dean could have, but he was great at research. He started begging Bobby to take him back to his dad so he could help, digging through Bobby's lore books in the meantime. He stopped talking quite so much after his dad shut that idea down over the phone, but continued to research on his own, eating and sleeping less, though Bobby had noticed that when he did sleep, his arms would always be carefully folded around the toy airplane Dean had given him for his birthday.

The worry had continued to consume him, and he was going down in a spiral of fear, exhaustion, and guilt, thinking he should be doing more. Bobby glanced over his shoulder to where Sam had retaken his seat. He'd always been small for his age, but now his clothes hung off his scrawny frame even more than usual. The look was compounded by the fact that he was wearing one of Dean's shirts…had been for two days now. He was leaning into his hand, tracing absent-minded circles into the table with a slightly shaky finger.

Bobby sighed, loaded two plates with food, and carried them to the table. Sam said nothing as Bobby placed his in front of him. "Sam?" Bobby asked carefully. "You alright, son?"

Sam sniffed and didn't look up. Bobby reached a hand across the table and gently tilted Sam's face up to meet his eyes. Tears glistened in his eyes and he hastily pulled away from Bobby, swiping at his eyes with a sleeve.

"Hey," Bobby soothed. "It's alright."

Sam shook his head, exhaustion feeding the flowing tears instead of allowing him to stop them as he obviously wanted to. "It's been so long," he whispered. "What if…I mean, I've looked _everywhere_ , Uncle Bobby. I keep checking the local paper every day, and they've never said they found a body or anything, so he's gotta be alive, but if he is, why isn't he back? Something really bad must've happened to keep him from coming back, 'cause Dean's a good hunter, and he'd get out, but what if he's locked up or something ate him or something and, and there's no…there's not anything left to find? I don't know what else to do, and Dad won't let me help, and—" He broke off with a sob and slumped miserably onto the table, head down in his arms.

Bobby walked around to sit next to him, looping an arm over the shaky, too-thin shoulders. "It's gonna be alright, Sam, you'll see. You're right, Dean is a great hunter, and he wouldn't let some fugly get the drop on him. Your daddy'll find him, and he's gonna be okay. I promise." He hated himself for lying to the kid, especially as the weeks had progressed and he got to see up close and personal what it was doing to him. He kept reminding himself that the reason he hadn't told Sam the truth was because he figured it would wreck his relationship with John—kid had so little to start with, Bobby didn't want to take that away.

Screw that, though. John was taking it too far. He'd give him his week, and then the truth would be out. Sam deserved a hell of a lot better than this. "In fact," he added as Sam sniffed again. "Your daddy just told me he had a lead."

Sam's head jerked up abruptly. "Really?" he breathed, blinking up through red, puffy eyes.

"Mm-hmm," Bobby lied.

Sam wiped at his eyes again. "That's, that's good, right? I mean it's a good lead?" he asked hopefully.

"Your daddy reckons so." Bobby smiled as Sam drew in a few deeps breaths and worked to calm himself down. "Don't give up just yet."

"I'm not," Sam said vehemently.

"Good." Bobby patted his shoulder and returned to his side of the table. "You gonna eat that?" he asked, gesturing with his fork at Sam's plate of bacon, eggs and toast.

Sam swallowed. "I'm not really hungry."

Bobby sighed inwardly. _Maybe_ he'd give John a week. All bets were off if the kid kept tryin' to worry himself to death. "You ain't been hungry for a week. Keep this up, there ain't gonna be much of you left for your daddy and Dean to come back to." Sam looked down and nudged the eggs around with his fork, but didn't eat any. "Just the toast?" Bobby suggested. "Please?"

"I'll try," Sam agreed. Slowly, as if each bite was painful, he nibbled on the dry bread, shaking his head at the offer of jelly. It would have to do.

Over the next couple of days, Bobby gave up on trying to make him go to school. It no longer provided the distraction it once had, and Bobby was none too keen on the exhausted, shaky and obviously underfed preteen drawing the attention of CPS. Sam drifted around the house trailing that airplane around by the wing, still poring over Bobby's library, dozing fitfully on the couch, picking at his food and staring at the phone with a mixture of hope and fear.

The call never came. John, ornery old coot that he was, showed up on the doorstep instead. His knock startled Sam from where he sat on the couch, staring at the wall and halfway asleep, and he leapt up and ran to the door. "Dad!" he called, reaching it as Bobby swung the screen door open and jumping at his dad. John caught him with no trouble, his eyebrows drawing together at how light he was. "Did you find him, Dad? Where is he? Is he okay?"

"He's fine, kiddo," John said, lowering him to the ground. "I found him and we're gonna go get him. Go grab your stuff."

Sam's face lit up in a smile Bobby had missed dearly over the past weeks, and he was out of the room like a shot and tearing up the stairs.

"What the hell happened to my kid, Singer?" John demanded, once he was sure Sam was out of earshot.

Bobby glared back at him, not moving aside to invite him in. "He spent the last two months scared sick that his brother might be dead, that's what happened," he snapped.

John looked like he wanted to say more, but Sam was back, duffel bag looped over his shoulder. The wing of the airplane was sticking out one end of it. He flung his arms around Bobby's waist. "Thanks, Uncle Bobby."

"You're welcome, Sam." Bobby thumped him on the back and Sam pulled away, smiling, then raced out to the car.

Bobby's smile faded as he turned back to John. "Don't you ever do anything like that to that boy again," he warned.

John marched back to the car, and Bobby waved at Sam through the back window. He hoped the kid would get some sleep in the car, though he knew the chances of that were slim until he set eyes on his big brother again. He wished he could be there to see the kid's eyes light up when he did.

Seven hours and a few hundred miles away, Dean was saying goodbye to Sonny, wondering how mad Robin would be about the dance, and then not caring about a bit of it the moment Sam looked up and met his eyes. Sam was out of the car and scrambling across the damp grass, slipping to his knees several times and seemingly unaware of it as he raced toward his big brother.

"DEAN!" Sam shouted, and Dean grunted at the impact as Sam collided with him and locked his arms around his chest. "You're back, you're back, you're back," he kept repeating, crying and laughing all at once and holding on to Dean as if he would never let go.

Dean dropped his bag and returned the embrace, resting his head on top of Sam's and burying his face in his hair. This whole normal life thing had been great, but this kid right here was home. "I'm back, Sammy," he agreed. He pulled back and knelt down so he could see his face, dabbing at his tears with his sleeve. "I'm back."


	11. I'm Not Dead Yet

It took Dean a minute to realize that he was awake. His eyes were shut, and opening them seemed like a lot of work. Everything was tight with a dull ache that he suspected should have been worse, though he couldn't put his finger on why. The air smelled sharp and sterile, and there was a soft, faraway beep of machinery—even half-asleep and light-headed, it was easy to add it all together and come up with hospital.

Deciding he should probably figure out what was going on, Dean finally convinced his eyes to open. A couple of blinks focused a blur of shapes into white walls, a few more tubes and needles poking out of him than he was really comfortable with, and a thirteen year-old slumped in the chair beside him with his face in his hands. "Sam?" he said.

Well, that was what he meant to say, anyway. It came out as more of a wheeze, but Sam's head jerked up like he'd been slapped. "Dean?" The kid looked awful. His eyes were watery and red, rimmed with tired circles, his nose was red and his hair was a mess. A broken little smile cracked its way across his face as he met Dean's eyes. "You're awake," he breathed like he almost couldn't believe it. "Are you…" His gaze travelled down the length of the bed and back. "Are you okay?"

"I'm—" Dean began and broke into a dry, rasping cough.

Sam's eyes widened in fear for a moment, then a straw was being pressed to Dean's lips and he inhaled the cool water greedily. He blinked again and Sam was inches away, holding a glass, concern shining from under that mop of hair. "Are you alright?" he asked worriedly. "I can call the nurse—"

Dean waved a hand weakly. "'m fine," he assured him. "Water's good." He blinked again, pleased when the focus settled this time instead of blurring away. "What happened?"

"It was a demon," Sam said softly. His eyes stayed on Dean's face, but his hands moved up to latch onto his arm above the IV. "On the Hilson farm."

Dean nodded. Right. That was a hunt that had gone all kinds of wrong. All the signs had pointed to a poltergeist, and they had been woefully underprepared for the demon they ran into. Thank goodness Dad had sensed something was off and made Sam wait in the car. Dean had flashes of flying into furniture and through windows, and he was pretty sure farm equipment had come into the mix at some point—it got a little fuzzy after the third knock into the ceiling. "Right. I remember. 's Dad okay?" Sam sniffed and nodded. "Good." He looked more closely at Sam and saw his lower lip trembling. "Hey, what's wrong?" Sam's eyes ducked away, roaming down the bed again before meeting his and Dean got it. He hitched up a smile. "What? It's not the first time I've been in a hospital."

Sam shook his head dejectedly, his fingers tightening around Dean's forearm. "But not like this…Dean, you…" He sniffed back a nose full of snot that Dean would have found funny if the kid didn't look so miserable. "I thought you were gonna _die_ ," he whispered. "You were asleep for three days, and you lost so much blood—and the doctors kept—and your head—and when your heart stopped yesterday—and they didn't think—they weren't sure if you would—and—and—" He was rambling, breath starting to hitch in his throat, and Dean reached out and looped his fingers around his wrist.

"Hey, hey," he soothed. "Inhale, kiddo." Sam's shoulders jerked and he made a choking sound before he managed to take in a gulp of air. Dean watched him for a moment before adding, "Let it out, man."

Sam exhaled, and after a few ragged breaths was breathing normally again. "Sorry," he mumbled, looking down. He didn't seem aware of the fact that his fingers had started gently kneading Dean's arm. One hand kept at it as he lifted the other to wipe his nose with his sleeve. "I just...Nobody was sure if you were gonna be okay, and I was so scared you…" His voice trailed off and he looked up again, eyes shining with three days' worth of worry and unshed tears.

Dean tugged on Sam's wrist, too weak to actually move him, but Sam collapsed forward onto his shoulder anyway. His arm wound around Dean's neck and after a few seconds, a patch of moisture started spreading across the shoulder of Dean's gown, Sam shaking softly. With a grunt, Dean raised the arm not pinned under his little brother and hugged him back. "It's okay, Sammy, I'm still here," he assured him. "I'm sorry I scared you, but don't worry, man, I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise?" came a muffled, childish voice from somewhere near his armpit.

Dean huffed a short laugh, although it made his chest hurt. Yeah, there had definitely been some defibrillator action going on there. Sam looked up and Dean smiled fondly. "Promise."

Relief shone in Sam's eyes, and he stood up again, wiping at his eyes and his nose. His other hand stayed gripped on Dean's arm, like he was afraid to let him go.

"So, uh," Dean coughed. "Where's Dad?"

A frown chased Sam's smile away. "After you got out of surgery, he went back to take out the demon. He called this morning—said he was done and would be back tomorrow."

Dean didn't push for more. Sam and Dad had started butting heads lately, and he was obviously upset at Dad's choice of absence. To be honest, so was Dean, even if he figured Dad wouldn't have left if he thought Dean was going to die. Could've mentioned it to Sam before he left, though.

So, change of topic… "You know _I'm_ the one who got stabbed with the pitchfork, right? Why do you look like crap?" His gaze travelled critically up and over Sam. "Have you slept at all?"

Sam ducked his head, all the answer Dean needed. "For three days?" He shook his head. "I don't know if I should be touched or if I should smack you in the head." He narrowed his eyes in mock consideration. "Bring your head over here so I can slap it."

Sam laughed in spite of himself, and Dean grinned. That was what he'd been after. With an enormous effort, he pushed himself up and scooted over on the bed, a sharp burning making him very aware of the fact he had stitches now. A lot of them. Oh yeah, that pitchfork in the gut and the desk to the ribcage just came screaming back. Still…He patted the bed next to him. "Get up here, man, before you pass out."

"Dean, I…" His obvious exhaustion and a desire to be close to his brother warred with worry in his eyes.

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Did you see how much work it took me to move over? Don't make me suffer in vain, Sam."

The corner of Sam's mouth quirked up, and he gingerly climbed up onto the bed, careful not to jostle the IV or anything that looked important as he settled down next to Dean. Now that he was a teenager, he was starting to pick up a little in the height department, but he was still scrawny as hell—helpful at this point, since there wasn't a lot of room.

Dean lifted an arm and let Sam lean in against his shoulder. His arm draped along his brother's and he felt something odd in the crook of Sam's elbow. "What happened to your arm?" he asked, fingering the bright blue bandage.

"Hmm?" Sam looked down. "Oh. It's…" He shrugged.

"Sam."

Sam looked up at the IV drip above them and shifted a little closer. "You lost a lot of blood," he said softly.

Dean blinked. "Did you…?"

Sam nuzzled his head back into Dean's shoulder. "Not as much as you needed—they said I was too small to give you enough, but…as much as I could."

Dean felt a warmth spreading across his chest that had nothing to do with broken ribs and stitches. He pulled Sam against his chest, pressing his face into his little brother's hair and squeezing his eyes shut. "Thanks, Sammy," he whispered, and no, his voice did not crack at _all_.

Sam wrapped an arm around his chest and hugged him back, fingers clenching in the hospital gown. "I'm glad you're okay, Dean," he whispered.

Dean kissed the top of his head—light enough that it could be denied if it ever came up—and rubbed his arm. "You're awesome, dude." He shot a glance down the bed, where somewhere in the minute since Sam had joined him, he'd been half-buried in a tangle of little brother. "You're also a friggin' octopus, you know that?"

Sam gave an amused snort but didn't move, and if he needed to cling onto Dean until he was sure he was okay, then Dean wasn't going to deny him that—even if he was holding on just a little too tight around those broken ribs. He didn't really want to let go of Sammy anyway. He settled back into the pillow, head resting lightly on top of Sam's, and fell asleep to the sound of his little brother's congested snoring.


	12. Not While I'm Around

Sam was used to making up stories explaining away scrapes and bruises. It's not like he could tell the school nurse the black eye came from dodging when he should have ducked sparring with his brother, or explain to his P.E. teacher that the twisted ankle/sore shoulder was the result of fighting a revenant/learning how to shoot a rifle. So he got pretty good at little white lies, and resigned himself to the fact that people must think he was ridiculously clumsy.

It wasn't too much of a surprise, then, the afternoon he was called in to see the counselor after class. And he was looking forward to being able to tell the truth for once—well, sort of. It was kind of embarrassing, actually, but it was true, so he took solace in that. (Their current motel was in worse shape than usual—God's honest truth, he had lost his footing on a loose tile in the shower and wound up with a spectacular bruise from the side of the tub covering most of his left forearm, and a shallow but nasty-looking cut over his eye where he'd hit the faucet on his way down.) The counselor, however, did not seem convinced by the end of their meeting—if anything, she seemed more suspicious—and Sam was fully expecting a phone call to his dad that evening. Great. Dad was out on a hunt, and he just _loved_ being bothered with stupid things Sam had done that messed with their cover.

Contemplating the inevitable chewing out had him in a bad mood by the time he got home, and when Dean mentioned doing some training after dinner, something snapped.

"Not tonight, Dean," he growled.

"What, afraid I'll kick your butt, Mr. Can't-Stand-Up-In-The-Shower?" Dean smirked. (Adding to the embarrassment of the whole shower fiasco was the fact that Dean had rushed into the bathroom on hearing Sam's startled yelp as he fell, then proceeded to find great amusement at the sight of Sam sprawled on the floor half-tangled in the shower curtain.)

"I've got homework," Sam grunted, ears reddening.

"So, do it after. This is important."

"My homework's important, Dean! I'm already the quiet, troubled new kid with trust issues or whatever—good grades are all I've got left to keep from being written off as a total freak!"

"Trust issues?" Dean's eyebrow arched quizzically. "What are you talking about?"

Sam sighed. "Just something the counselor…Never mind. Just shut up and let me do my work."

"Geez, moody much, Samantha?" Dean snarked back…And the conversation deteriorated from there.

It ended with Dean throwing up his hands and stalking out the door, growling that Sam had better be done with his homework when he got back from the grocery store because they were going to be training all night, and Sam slammed the door behind him with a very uncomplimentary shout across the parking lot.

Sam settled down, fuming, with a tattered library copy of the Merchant of Venice when there was a knock at the door. He ignored it. If Dean had locked himself out, well, he could just stay out there or pick the lock. The knock sounded again, sharper this time. "Police!" a voice called from the other side. "Open up!"

Oh, crap. Oh, _crap_ , what was he supposed to do? His mind raced—Dad was hunting out of town, so no story to stick to. Dean…Dean had money, so he wouldn't have stolen anything from the store, and anyway, why would they come here if he had?

He opened the door, standing with arms at his sides to show he was unarmed like Dad had taught him, trying to look as innocent as possible. "Um, hi, officer. Is everything okay?"

Two men stood at the door, one in a police uniform and one in a suit. "Are you Sam Winchester?" asked the one in the uniform.

Crap, _he_ hadn't done anything wrong, had he? "Y-yes, Sir."

The man in the suit smiled. "Don't worry, Sam, you're not in trouble. We're just here to talk to you."

"About what?" Sam couldn't think what they'd want, but didn't like where this was headed. "Uh, my dad's not home, and I'm really not supposed to talk to strangers, so…"

"Actually, it's your dad we thought you might want to talk about," suit-man said. "Mrs. Carver from your school called me earlier, and she thought I should come and see you."

Sam's stomach twisted itself into about fifteen knots all at once. His counselor had called him. That meant this was CPS, and Sam had no idea what to do. They'd dodged CPS a few times in the past, but actual face-to-face was a whole new ball game.

"Oh," Sam swallowed. "It was about this, wasn't it?" He lifted his arm, seeing confirmation in the man's eyes, and disapproval in the cop's. He swallowed again and tucked his arm behind him. "It, really, it wasn't my dad—I slipped in the shower, and…" Yeah, they were buying that.

The next ten minutes were kind of a blur. They asked some more questions, and Sam was pretty sure he got them wrong—the crap motel room wasn't earning him any extra points either—and before he knew what was happening, he and his duffel bag were being escorted out to a squad car. Sam pressed his face to the window, frantically looking for Dean in the small, curious crowd that had gathered in the parking lot, and they were driving away.

The boys' home he found himself in—'somewhere safe for him to stay until they could figure things out'—was one of the most depressing places Sam had ever seen in his life. The walls were grey, the lights flickered gloomily, and the guy who showed him to his room reminded him of Uncle Bobby—someone else he was probably never going to see again. What was he going to do now? Dean would have no idea where he was, and Dad was going to be _super_ pissed about all this—if he found out. Did they tell people when they took their kids away? Surely they did. Maybe.

Sam picked at the dinner they offered, gloomily wondering what Dean had been planning to make that evening and retreating to his room as soon as the meal was done. He curled into a ball on top of his blanket facing the wall, ignoring the sounds of his three new roommates as they moved in and out. What if Dad and Dean never found him? He shivered at the thought. Dad could be as mad as he wanted, as long as he found him. And Dean? Would the last thing he'd remember about his brother be Sam shouting that he hated him? Sam stifled a sob into his pillow.

He was shivering by the time the lights went out, but made no move to get under the blanket. He sniffled quietly as he thought that Dean would be pulling the covers up over him, telling him that his day had sucked enough already without him catching cold. If Dean would just come find him, he could make him run all the laps or call him all the names he wanted, Sam didn't care. Yeah, so maybe he wanted to be out of the hunting life, but not like this. Not if it meant losing his family.

Sam sniffed and wiped at his eyes, trying to make as little noise as possible, but unable to stop the tears that had started. Not a single thing he'd ever hunted or read about in his dad's journal came close to making him as terrified as he was right now. He'd never been on his own before and he had no idea how to do it. And now he was truly alone—he'd lost the one person in this world who believed in him, who understood him and watched out for him and he was terrified. Sam suddenly felt small and crushed and lost, unable to stop another sob escaping his throat.

"Oh, seriously, new kid, would you just shut up?" groaned a voice from across the room. "We're trying to sleep here."

"How about you shut up, punk?" answered a slightly muffled, familiar growl.

Sam shot up in bed. "Dean?" he asked thickly, eyes hopefully scanning the darkness for the source of the sound. Outside the window, a flash of teeth grinned widely in response, and Sam leapt to his feet. "Dean!" he repeated, pressing his hands against the glass and grinning in relief. "Dean, you…You gotta get me out of here."

"Just a minute, Sam, I'm coming," Dean grunted, and Sam saw his outline shifting outside the window before hearing the soft _snick_ of his pocket knife against the latch. The window slid up and Dean slithered through, landing silently as a cat.

"What's going on? You're not—" started one of the other boys.

"You not hear what I just said?" Dean growled. "Shut your face before I break it," he ordered, and the rest of the room was silent. Dean turned back to his brother and smiled. "Hiya, Sammy."

Sam threw his arms around his brother. Dean grunted at the impact, but patted Sam warmly on the back. "I'm sorry I yelled at you," Sam said quietly, clenching his fists in Dean's jacket and breathing in the comforting smell of gunpowder and leather and home. "I didn't mean any of it, what I said this afternoon," he choked.

"Aw, Sammy," Dean sighed. "You don't have to…"

"I'm really sorry," Sam cut him off, tightening his grip. He knew all the emotions in front of strangers was making Dean uncomfortable, but he didn't care. His world had broken that afternoon and this was important. "I don't hate you," he whispered into his chest.

Dean exhaled slowly and hugged Sam back. "It's okay, Sammy, I know," he replied softly. "I'm sorry too." He reached up to ruffle Sam's hair. "You ready to get out of here?"

Sam nodded quickly and scooped his duffel off the floor, which Dean grabbed and tossed through the open window before kneeling to give Sam a boost up. He followed, pausing halfway out to point a warning finger back into the room. "Not a word, got it?" Then they were moving silently through the bushes and down to the street where the Impala was waiting.

They drove for a few minutes until Dean was sure no one had followed them. He pulled off to the side of the road, turning in the seat to face his brother. "Sam, what the hell happened?"

Sam knew him well enough to know he wasn't angry—though he sounded like it—but deeply concerned, and the words tumbled out of him in a rush. "The counselor wanted to talk to me at school, and she didn't believe me about my arm, and then _they_ showed up and said she called them, and they didn't believe me either, and they were asking questions and you were gone and I couldn't think of what to say, and then they were taking me to the car and I wanted to run away but he was a cop and I couldn't go anywhere and I didn't, and I couldn't…"

Dean blinked in surprise at the flood of information, then reached out and laid a hand on Sam's unbruised arm. "Hey, take a breath, it's okay," he said. He waited as Sam got his breathing back to normal. "Are you okay?" he asked seriously.

Sam nodded. "Yeah, they didn't do anything to me or anything, I just…" He looked up at Dean apologetically. "I didn't know what to do."

The corner of Dean's mouth quirked up. "It is a new one, I'll give you that." He sobered. "You said you talked to the counselor?"

Sam nodded. Was this the part where he should have known better? "She called me in because of my arm and my eye. I didn't think they were going to…I thought they were just going to call Dad," he said quietly.

It was Dean's turn to nod. "And all this over the stupid shower?" He huffed a small laugh. "The one time you could actually tell them the truth…" His face got serious again. "Seriously though, man, I don't know what else you could have done. And once the cop showed up…Going with 'em was the right move there. Fighting probably would have ended you up in juvie, and that's harder to break out of."

Sam relaxed a little and nodded again. It still sucked, but Dean not berating him for his actions made it a lot better. Unlike…"Dad's gonna be so mad," he whispered.

"Yeah, he probably would be if we told him," Dean agreed. Sam's head snapped up in surprise and Dean arched an eyebrow. "What? Counselor or CPS, somebody called him either way. Whenever he gets around to his voicemail, he'll know CPS got curious—and, hey, that happens—so he'll call me and I'll tell him the truth—that it's taken care of. And that'll be it." He looked at Sam intently. "It wasn't your fault, Sam."

Sam smiled gratefully. "How did you even know where I was, anyway?"

Dean smiled. "You kidding? CPS showing up to take a kid away was the most exciting thing anybody at the motel had seen in weeks. I got like half a question out and the old lady in thirteen wouldn't shut up about it." He shrugged. "Finding a list of homes after that was easy."

"Thanks for coming to get me," Sam said sincerely.

"It's your week to do laundry, man, I wasn't letting you get out of that," he quipped, cuffing Sam playfully on the shoulder. "You good?"

Sam shifted nervously. "I don't know, Dean, what if they come back?" The bruises weren't going away overnight, after all.

"Well, we'll be at a different motel, for starters," Dean said. "And maybe you do school at home until we hit the next town."

"What about next time?" Any new hunting injuries he couldn't hide would just start the cycle over again, and a weight settled in the pit of his stomach. The threat of being taken away was no longer some distant worry and he swallowed down a wave of panic. "You can't let them take me away again," he begged. "I can't—"

"No one's taking you anywhere, Sammy," Dean promised, taking him firmly by the shoulders. "Not ever, you got that?"

"But how do you know?" he asked. They'd already tried once today, had come so close. What would stop them next time?

Dean smiled. "Considering you've had the absolute worst day ever, I'll forgive you for forgetting that my birthday is on Friday."

Not what Sam was expecting. "What?"

"I'll be eighteen in two days, dude. And then, so what if they want to take you away from Dad?" He pointed to his chest. "As an official grown-up, I can be your legal guardian if they decide he can't." He squeezed Sam's shoulder. "They're not taking you anywhere," he repeated seriously. "Not as long as I'm around. Okay?"

The knot in Sam's stomach finally untwisted. "Okay," he said, and he meant it.

"Okay," Dean repeated. He started the motor back up and quirked an eyebrow. "They feed you in there?"

Sam hitched one shoulder in a half shrug. "It was kind of crap and I wasn't hungry."

"Burgers and shakes?"

Sam's stomach growled at the thought of the greasy, sugary comfort food. "What're we still sitting here for?"

Dean laughed and gunned the engine.


	13. Stitching My World Back Together

Dean had known about monsters since he was four, had been hunting them since he was ten, but in all his nineteen years had never been truly terrified until right now. His dad was yelling his name, but he couldn't hear anything besides the pounding of his heart in his ears, couldn't see anything but the bloody mess that was his little brother curled up in his lap. His brain was shutting down, and he wasn't sure he could remember how to breathe or not.

"Dean!" His father's voice finally broke through the fog in his head, and he snapped his eyes up dumbly to stare at his dad standing beside him. Wait, Dad was driving, what was he doing outside the car? "Come on, son, we need to get him inside." Oh. They were back at the motel.

Dean gathered Sam close to his chest, trying to move him as little as possible as he slid out of the backseat. Sam had been in and out of consciousness since they got in the car, and he moaned in pain as they shifted. "Hang on, Sammy," Dean pleaded, rushing for the door his father was holding open. "You're gonna be okay." Please, God, let him be okay!

Inside, Dean laid his brother out carefully on one of the beds. His dad slammed the door and rushed to the bathroom for the first aid kit. Dean just stood there, seeing the blood on his hands for the first time. Sam's blood. He stumbled to the kitchen and retched violently into the sink. This wasn't supposed to happen. Sam was hurt, maybe even _dying_. He'd been hunting with them since he was twelve, and for three years, Dean had kept him safe. Sure, he'd gotten banged up now and then, even broken his arm once, but he'd never been…this was…Sammy was _hurt_.

"Dean!" Dad barked from the bed. "Keep it together! I need you over here!" Right. Dad needed him. _Sammy_ needed him. He grabbed a towel, wiped the blood from his hands and marched back to the bed. He could do this. His dad caught his wrist briefly, a rare softness in his eyes. "I know," he said gently. "Help me fix him up."

They'd gone in against a werewolf, and it had all gone according to plan—until it turned out to have a mate. The first one was down before the second leapt out of the shadows. With faster reflexes than Dean knew the kid had, Sam had spun around and gotten off a shot before either he or Dad could react, missing the heart but catching it in the gut. That had slowed it down, but made it mad, and its claws raked Sam across the midsection and flung him to the ground.

Dean helped his dad peel the tattered remains of Sam's shirt away from the gashes across his belly. The cotton was tacky with semi-dried blood, tugging at the skin as it pulled away, and Sam made a sound like a hurt puppy, trying to curl into a protective ball. "Keep him still, Dean," Dad said.

Dean shifted up the bed to sit by Sam's shoulder, placing one hand on his forehead and another gingerly on his chest. Sam's eyes fluttered open at the touch. "D'n?"

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said, hitching what he hoped was a smile onto his face. "Hey, it's okay. Just lie still, kiddo, it's gonna be fine."

"Dean, s'another werewolf," Sam muttered, his eyes getting wider.

"No, it's okay, we got it.," Dean assured him. "You did good, Sam, you shot it, remember?" Sam nodded weakly. "It just got in a good hit before it went down."

"Hurts, Dee," Sam moaned, and Dean felt a lump in his throat at the use of his childhood name.

"I know, man, I know," he said softly, brushing Sam's hair away from his face. "But Dad's gonna fix you up, alright? You're gonna be okay." He glanced up at his father who nodded grimly and held up a bottle of alcohol. Dean moved his hand from Sam's head and locked his fingers tightly with his brother's. "Hang on, Sammy, this is gonna hurt. But I'm right here, man, just keep your eyes on me, okay?"

His dad began carefully pouring out the alcohol, washing out debris and sterilizing the wound, and Sam screamed and arched up off the bed.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Dean repeated frantically, pressing down on Sam's chest. "It's okay. Deep breaths, breathe, breathe," he said, breathing in deeply and squeezing Sam's hand warmly when he followed suit. Sam stilled, drawing deep, ragged breaths, clenching Dean's hand until all feeling was gone in his fingers. When he opened his eyes they were shining with pain, tears streaming down his face. Dean brushed them away carefully, blinking back tears of his own.

He shot another look at his dad, who looked up from clearing out the lacerations. "It's clean," he said, relief shining through the weary lines in his face. "Tore up the muscles, nothing deeper."

Dean sighed in relief. Okay, yeah it was bad—moving was going to hurt for a long time, and he'd definitely be feeling like crap after a few rounds of blood transfusions— _but he was going to make it_. "What'd I tell ya, Sammy? You may not want to go shirtless at the pool this weekend, but it's all gonna be good."

Sam managed a weak snort of laughter at Dean's attempt at a joke, his face twisting in pain as soon as he did. "Easy, man, easy," Dean soothed, rubbing his chest gently. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dad filling a syringe, and Sam whimpered as the needle pierced his skin. "Ooh, looks like you're getting the good stuff, Sammy." Sam tried to smile again but failed, and he rolled his head to the side and keened into the pillow. "May take it a little while to kick in," Dean said softly, stroking Sam's hair. Sam leaned into the touch, and Dean swallowed down another lump in his throat. Knowing his brother wasn't dying didn't make this hurt any less.

Moisture was spreading across his leg as Sam cried silently into his jeans, and Dean could feel his brother's breath hitch with every tug Dad made with the needle. "Hey, look up here at me, Sammy," he told him, still stroking his hair. "Eyes on me, man, that's it." Sam's watery eyes met his own, and Dean smiled. "You still got that chem test next week, right? Do the periodic table for me, huh?"

"What?" Sam breathed, eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

"Humor me," Dean said warmly. "Starts with something with an 'h', right?"

"Hydrogen," Sam replied shakily. "Then helium, lithium, b-beryllium…" Punctuated with the occasional gasp of pain, Sam slowly listed all the elements, his breathing growing steadier as he concentrated on the task instead of the needle stitching his abdomen back together. He finished when Dad was about a third of the way done, so Dean had him recite an exorcism next, followed by the lyrics to "Ride The Lightning", which turned into Dean singing it gently while Sam mumbled the words along with him.

By the time the song was finished, the medication was kicking in and Sam was having trouble concentrating on Dean's request to name the states. "I think that's good enough, kiddo," he said with a grin after Sam got stuck on Arkansas and said it three times. Sam smiled sleepily and nuzzled his face into Dean's leg, and Dean resumed his gentle stroking of Sam's hair.

"Done," his dad said softly a little later. Sam's stomach was wrapped in bandages that Dean was pleased to see were staying white—no blood seeping through—and Dad gave him an exhausted smile. "He's gonna be fine. You up to sharing once I can get an IV slapped together?"

Dean nodded, then turned his eyes back to Sam while Dad started packing away the first aid supplies. "Thank you," he whispered, his eyes misting over. The kid was Dean's world, and it looked like it was going to keep spinning for another day.

He squeezed Sam's hand again, whether to assure Sam that he was still there, or to assure himself that Sam was, he didn't know. Sam's eyes flickered open again and he blinked blearily up at Dean. "Hey, Sammy," Dean smiled warmly. "It's okay. You wanna get some sleep now?"

Sam nodded, but his nose wrinkled as he stared at Dean.

"What?" Dean asked, suddenly concerned again.

"S'all…" Sam slurred, his brow furrowing. "S'all purple," he said, sounding confused.

Dean blinked. "Purple?"

Sam nodded seriously. Dean smiled again. "Purple, huh? I'll, uh, I'll see what I can do about that. Bet it doesn't hurt anymore now, does it?"

Sam flopped his head three times from side to side in an exaggerated shake of the head. "Mmm, nope," he declared. His eyes were already fluttering shut, and Dean chuckled.

"Good." He patted his chest lightly, then moved his hand to grasp the fingers Sam had snaked through his belt loop. "I'm not going anywhere," he whispered, settling back against the headboard and making sure to keep his leg stretched out alongside Sam so his brother could feel him there. "You're gonna be fine, and I'm gonna be right here."


	14. Old Hiding Places

The house was quiet in an uncomfortable sort of way as Dean came in the front door. He'd been down in Bobby's garage re-tuning an engine—he and Sam had been here for nearly a month while their dad popped in and out working on a case. He could've gone out with Dad—and sometimes he did—but Sam was sixteen and still in school, and Dean didn't like to go too far. Besides, Bobby was letting him help out with the cars, and it was nice to be getting some cash of his own.

Today, though, the hours in the garage hadn't been so much about the car or the money as it had been the need to stay out of the way. November 2nd was never a good day for the Winchester men, and while Dean tended toward silent brooding, Dad favored increasingly angry drinking. At this point in the afternoon, that made the silence all the more unnerving. "Dad?" he called tentatively, stepping into the living room. "Bobby?"

"In here, Dean," Bobby answered from the kitchen. He looked up from whatever he was cooking as Dean walked in. "Your daddy ain't here," he said, answering Dean's question before he could ask it. "I told him to get out before I shot him, so he went to find himself a bar and a fight and maybe something to kill. Told him if he lands in jail for drunk and disorderly, I ain't comin' to get him."

Dean snorted. That sounded about right.

"May want to check on your brother," Bobby continued. Dean raised a questioning eyebrow, but "Think he's out back," was all Bobby would add.

Heading out the kitchen and into the salvage yard, Dean wondered what about Sam needed checking on. Obviously Bobby would have said something if he was hurt. "Sam?" The only other thing Dean could think was that it had something to do with today—although, never having known Mom, the day never really hit him like it did Dad and Dean. "Sam?" Nothing. But if Sam was upset, then maybe…

Yep. Along the far wall of the salvage yard was a stack of cars that hadn't moved since the boys had been little. Two cars formed the bottom of the pile and two more lay across the top of them, enclosing a little nook that had seemed a lot bigger when Dean had been nine. It looked even smaller now, with a tangle of scrawny limbs taking up most of it. "Hey, Sam," Dean said. The mop of hair rose fractionally from the arms it had been folded into. Dean could barely see his brother's eyes through the curtain of brown. "You alright?"

"Fine," Sam muttered.

Dean snorted. "Dude, you're hiding in the car fort. You haven't done that since you were, like, eleven. What's up?"

Sam's head went back down again, and for a long moment, he said nothing. Then, with a shaky sigh, he lifted his head up all the way, revealing red, watery eyes—he'd obviously been crying, and his lips were pressed together in a tight line as he tried not to start crying again.

Dean was pressing into the space beside him before he had time to say anything. "What's wrong, Sammy?"

Sam turned his face away and sniffed, wiping at his nose. "I heard Dad talking to Uncle Bobby," he said softly. "They were in the kitchen, and—I didn't mean to! I know on…today, to just, just stay out of the way, and I was just gonna stay up in our room and do my homework, but," he paused, drew a hand across his nose again. "I left my math book in the living room. When I went down to get it, I could hear Dad yelling."

Dean sighed. Crap. What had Dad said this time? It was tight in the small space, but he managed to snake an arm around Sam's shoulder. Sam moved to pull away, but there was nowhere to go.

Sam swallowed hard, as if gathering his strength. "Dean," he whispered. "Is it my fault Mom's dead?"

"What?! Sammy, no, man, why would you think that?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably, keeping his eyes down on the dirt. "Dad was talking about the fire," he mumbled. "And he said Mom…" He sniffed and wiped at his eyes. "If she hadn't gone in my room, she wouldn't have died."

Dean sighed deeply. A tiny part of him marveled that Sam had never wondered about this before. Not that it was Sam's fault, but it was an easy enough train to follow, and Sam had always been good about blaming himself for…well, for anything. "Sam," he said seriously. "It wasn't your fault, man. Seriously, you were, like, this big." He held out his hands about a foot apart. "You didn't make anything happen."

"She was in there because of me," Sam insisted.

"Yeah, cause it was the middle of the night," Dean said. "Babies eat, like, all the time. She was in there at the same time every night. It's not like she heard the thing and ran in there."

Sam said nothing.

"She probably would have, though," Dean went on. "I mean, if she had thought something was happening to you…Protecting their kids is what moms do."

Sam sniffed miserably and hid his head in his arms again. Okay, so maybe that wasn't the right track to take. "It's not your fault," he said again, gently. "It was just an accident."

"She wouldn't have come in if I wasn't there, and if she hadn't come in, she wouldn't have died in the fire," Sam protested, his voice muffled.

"Maybe not," Dean allowed. "But you would have." He didn't think it would help to tell Sam that Mary's dying screams had been what had woken John, what gave him time to save his sons. They might have burned to death otherwise—she saved them all with her death. It sucked, but she was a mom who protected her family, and Dean had only ever blamed the thing that killed her for that loss.

Sam shrugged under Dean's arm. "So?" he muttered. "Dad would still have Mom, and you, and you'd all still have a life."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Sam!" Dean sputtered. "Don't even start that, man! Don't you dare go thinking we'd be better off without you!"

Sam burrowed farther into his arms, and Dean had to strain to hear his next words. "Not like you'd be missing much," he mumbled. He couldn't catch all of the next sentence, but he did get the words "suck" and "disappointing."

"Sam, you're not a disappointment to anybody," Dean said, keeping his voice calm with great effort. For once, he really hoped Sam was jumping to conclusions here, not repeating something else he'd overhead Dad say. He loved the man, but if he'd actually said that about Sam, drunken ramble or not, Dean would break his nose.

He squeezed Sam's arm firmly. "You're not, you hear me? There is nothing in this world I would trade you for."

"Not even to have Mom back?" Sam asked softly.

Dean didn't even hesitate. He wanted Mom back so bad it hurt, even after all these years, but…"Not if it meant losing you, Sammy."

He felt some of the tension drain out of Sam's shoulders at that, but he still didn't look up. "It's still my fault she's gone, though," he whispered miserably.

"No, it isn't, Sam," Dean asserted. "It's nobody's fault but that yellow-eyed freak's. Maybe it was trying to get you and she stopped it. Maybe it was a serial-killer monster with a thing for blonde women. Or maybe it was really after her. I mean, between a baby, a preschooler and a sleeping guy, there wouldn't have been any fight if it wanted to kill everyone. And if it was just after her, then it would have happened whether she was in your room or not. We're probably never gonna know, man. That doesn't change the fact that there was nothing you did to make any of it happen, and it never has been and never will be your fault."

He studied his silent brother for a long moment, then it clicked why Sam hadn't looked him in the eye since he sat down. He tugged Sam closer into his side. "You know _I_ don't blame you for what happened, right?" There it was—watery hazel eyes peeked out from behind his hair again. "I never have."

The last of the tension flowed out of Sam then, and he leaned into Dean. "Dad still does," he said sadly, resting his head on Dean's shoulder.

"No, he doesn't," Dean said gently.

"But he—"

"Dad gets stupid when he drinks, you know that," Dean cut in. He rubbed Sam's shoulder. "He shouldn't have said it at all, and I'm not trying to defend him, but…Try not to let it get to you."

Sam was quiet for a long time. "I do love Mom, you know," he said at last, very softly. "I know I didn't know her really, not like you guys did, but…"

"I know you do, kiddo," Dean assured him, wondering what all he'd heard Dad say. He was really glad the man was out for the night. "She loved you too."

Sam wiped at his eyes again, and Dean hugged him. These were mourning tears this time, not guilty or fearful, and Dean held on to him and let him be. And if his own eyes got a little misty, well, it was November 2nd, wasn't it?

"You hungry?" Dean asked when Sam ran dry again. "Bobby's making meatloaf. Pretty sure we could talk him into some garlic bread if we get in there before he's done cooking."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. He wiped his nose with his sleeve. "Sounds good."

Dean let go of Sam and extracted himself from between the cars, tactfully loosening Sam's grip on him and neglecting to mention he'd practically been snuggling there for a minute. "Maybe we can catch Jeopardy after dinner—I can whip your butt before you do your homework."

Sam snorted. "You suck at Jeopardy."

"Whatever, dude," Dean retorted. "I just always let you win."

"We'll see," Sam replied. And there was the smile Dean was after. He threw his arm over his little brother's shoulder and they walked back up to the house.


	15. Rain Check On Normal

Dad's truck roared to life on the other side of the trees, and Dean slowly counted to ten. He knew Sam was doing the same—the difference between them being Sam was sitting blindfolded on a log and Dean was hiding in the bushes. It was an old drill of Dad's—ride blindfolded to somewhere in the middle of the woods, find your way back to civilization. At twenty-one, Dean was old enough to have graduated out of this level of training, and this was technically Sam's first time to go solo—he didn't know that Dad had left Dean behind to trail him and keep an eye on him.

At the count of ten, Sam whipped off the blindfold. He checked his direction, wisely realized that the way the truck had left would take too long on foot, and set off to the south. "Good boy, Sammy," Dean whispered, slinking through the brush to keep him close.

It was late afternoon, and Sam was setting a fast pace. Probably hoping to make it back before nightfall—a wise, if unrealistic goal on his part. Dad never made it that easy on them. About half an hour before sunset, they reached a deep ravine. Sam jogged up and down the edge looking for a fallen tree or a thin spot to cross, but no such luck. He was going to have to go down and climb up the other side—a good hour's worth of work. Dean could tell the moment Sam realized that, although his reaction wasn't what Dean was expecting. Based on how fast Sam had been going (which was pretty impressive, Dean had to admit), he expected Sam to start down immediately…not to go completely still. His back was facing Dean, and his shoulders slumped as if the ravine had defeated him. Dean was still trying to work that one out when the stillness turned into a flurry of motion. With an angry roar, Sam lashed out at the tree in front of him, kicking furiously. He flung his shotgun to the ground, picking up stone after stone and hurling them into the river below. He straightened with a howl of frustration when he ran out of rocks, and then the fight seemed to drain out of him. He sagged to his knees and then to the ground, still facing away from Dean. One fist pounded against the dirt a couple of times, then he drew up his knees and lowered his head onto them, and everything was quiet.

At first Dean had thought Sam's haste to complete the drill had come from a desire to prove himself to Dad. He'd always hated these kinds of drills, had never really seen the point in them, but was just as capable as Dean. And lately, for all Sam's fight, he'd really been trying harder—like he wanted to show Dad he was able to take care of himself. And there had been a lot of fight lately. This afternoon had been a big one. Dean had been outside for most of it, but Sam and Dad were both super-pissed, and the ride up here had been stiflingly silent and uncomfortable. (Secretly, Dean thought that Sam might just have made it back before dark if he hadn't pissed Dad off so much before the drive out.) But however angry and wanting to prove himself right Sam might have been, it didn't really add up to this kind of reaction.

Yeah, so Sam was supposed to do this by himself, but screw that. Something wasn't right here. Dean stepped out from his hiding place. "Sam?"

If nothing else, his reflexes were on point. One of Dean's feet was still in the bushes, and Sam was up and spinning to face him, fallen shotgun back in his hands. "Easy man, it's just me," Dean said, raising his hands.

"Dean?" Sam dropped the gun to his side and hastily wiped at his face, too late to hide the tear tracks on his cheeks.

"Sammy, what's wrong?"

"It's Sam, and nothing. Shut up," Sam snapped, rubbing at his eyes again. They were dry now, but red, and narrowed in a scowl. His cheeks were flushed with a mixture of anger and embarrassment.

"Sam," Dean said patiently.

For a long moment Sam said nothing, then he sighed and dropped to sit down again. Dean took the absence of a dismissal as an invitation, and sat beside him. "So?" he prompted after a minute.

"It's Friday," Sam sighed.

Dean nodded. No more was offered. "And?" he asked at last. Dad always preferred to do these survival drills over the weekend.

"Never mind, it's stupid," Sam huffed. "What are you even doing out here anyway?"

"Making sure nothing sneaks up on you and eats you. Don't dodge the question."

"I said it was stupid."

"Dude, I'm not gonna laugh at you. Spill."

Sam stared at him suspiciously for several seconds. "Becky Taylor," he said at last.

"What?"

"I…I had a date with Becky Taylor tonight," Sam muttered.

"Becky? The girl you've been working on that history project with for weeks?"

Sam nodded. "There was this dance thing at school tonight…"

Dean grinned. Becky was a pretty girl. Way too bookish for Dean's tastes, but the looks were definitely there, and from what he'd seen of her when she studied with Sam, she was pretty sweet. Kind of quiet, laughed when Sam made jokes about art history…definitely his brother's kind of girl. And Sam hadn't said a word, but a blind guy could have told he was head over heels. "Way to go, Sammy!"

"It's _Sam_ , and shut up, it's not like it matters now," he growled. "I was supposed to pick her up ten minutes ago," he added more quietly.

And then Dean got it. It had been a while since they'd stayed in one place long enough for Sam to get the chance to ask someone out. And the fact that she said yes…well, awesome guy or not, constantly being the new kid had its disadvantages. This wasn't a chance Sam got very often, and no matter how sweet this Becky girl was, being stood up without so much as a phone call didn't bode well for Sam's chances of getting a rain check.

"That's what you and Dad were fighting about this afternoon, huh?" Dean guessed.

Sam scowled darkly. "Dad didn't care that this was my only—I didn't even start out arguing, I swear. When I got home and he said we were doing this, I just asked if we could do this stupid thing tomorrow instead. He wanted to know why, and when I told him…" Sam sniffed, and Dean caught a thinness in his voice that said he was approaching tears again. Sam cleared his throat before continuing. "He said there were more important things in life, and I could go on the date if I could make it back in time."

Well, that explained the breakneck pace. And really, Dean thought, that had been kind of low on Dad's part—there was no way Sam was making it back on time from where he'd been dropped.

"I hate this, Dean!" Sam snapped, anger overriding the crack in his voice. "Why is it so wrong for me to want to go out with a girl? What's wrong with just wanting to go to dance on a Friday night, or…or join a soccer team, or be in a play, or just, or…" He huffed a sigh and dropped his head again. "What does Dad have against me just being a normal kid?" he mumbled into his knees.

Dean sighed, and after a second, draped an arm over Sam's shoulder, pleased when it wasn't shrugged off. Truth was, he'd asked himself those questions too. He'd always pushed for Sam to have as much 'normal' as he could. And it wasn't like Dean hadn't taken girls out to dances and crap in school. Sometimes he thought maybe Dad forgot that Sam was still a kid.

"I hate all of it," Sam muttered again. "I hate the research and the moving and the…hiking around at night looking for things that want to kill us." He looked up. "You know there are kids in my class who've lived in the same house since the day they were born? They eat dinner with their families, and go on vacations, and their dads teach them things like how to play football or cook or work on cars."

"Dad taught us how to work on cars," Dean pointed out.

"Dad taught _you_ how to work on cars," Sam retorted, and if there was a trace of bitterness in there, Dean didn't rise to the bait. "Those other kids are normal _and_ they're safe," he continued, sniffing again. "We've never been either of those."

Okay, normal, hell no, but safe? That one stung a little bit. Keeping Sam safe trumped everything on Dean's list. "Knowing what's out there keeps us safe, Sam," he countered.

Sam glared at him. "Dean, I missed two days of school last week because a ghost threw me through a window, and you've still got one more rabies shot left because you got bitten by a possessed wild cat."

Ok, point.

"I know we help people," Sam went on softly, cutting off what was going to be Dean's next point. "I do. I just…There are lots of different ways to help people, Dean. Do I ever get to choose?" And those watery eyes and the voice that sounded five just about broke Dean's heart.

"One of these days, Sam," he promised, squeezing Sam's shoulder and thinking with a pang of the college applications Sam kept squirreled away in his backpack. He knew Sam would tell him about them when he was ready—probably after he'd been accepted so he'd know if it was even worth bringing up—and maybe by then Dean would be ready to let him go.

Sam snorted skeptically, but leaned into Dean's shoulder. "Becky's never going to talk to me again," he said sadly. "I really liked her. I even thought maybe…."

"Maybe what?" Dean asked encouragingly.

Sam nuzzled his face into Dean's shoulder, muffling his next words. "You know I've never kissed a girl before, Dean?"

Dean blinked down in surprise at the top of his brother's head. Looks like the kid was able to keep some secrets after all. "Really?"

"No," Sam replied softly.

"What about Katy what's-her-face in Ohio?"

Sam shook his head and Dean squeezed his shoulder again. Part of the big brother in him wanted to tease Sam—because really? Wow—but the rest of his big brother instincts told him nothing would shut Sam down faster. "Waiting for the right girl, huh? 'Atta boy. Better man than I am, that's for sure."

He was pretty sure he didn't imagine the soft snort of amusement.

"Here, sit up for a sec." He pushed Sam off his shoulder and dug in his pocket. Survival training and all, Sam didn't get a phone. But Dean did. "What's Becky's number?"

"Dean, the dance already started, forget it."

"Shut up, Sam. Gimme her number." Sam sighed and rattled it off. Dean could have just given the phone to Sam, but any excuses coming from him—however true—were going to sound kind of lame at this point. No, this was a better idea. He got an answer before the end of the first ring. Waiting for a date that hadn't shown, poor girl was probably waiting by the phone.

"Becky? Hey, this is Dean—Sam's older brother." Sam's eyes went wide and he grabbed for the phone. Dean swatted him away. "Listen, there was this accident in the auto shop this afternoon—smashed the hell outta my hand, and Sam had to come and drive me to the hospital. Our dad's out of town and we've been in the ER all afternoon—Sam's on the phone trying to get a hold of him. I know he was supposed to take you to the dance tonight, and I feel terrible messing up you guys' night. I didn't even think about it until we were at the hospital, and you know Sam—can't say no to someone in trouble." Sam groaned beside him, but he heard a faint 'aaw' on the other end of the line. "Anyway, I just wanted to let you know what happened—I'm sure if Sam had any idea what time it was, he'd be the one calling you right now. You want me to have him call you when he's off the other phone?"

He was quickly shut down by Becky protesting that it was alright, that she knew it must have been something important for Sam not to come, and that she really hoped his hand would be okay. Sam was staring at him in disbelief when he hung up.

"Dean, what did you do? You can't just—"

"What, you wanted me to tell her you couldn't make it because you're deep in the woods training to fight monsters?" Dean cocked an eyebrow.

"Well, no, but—"

"She knows you had no choice in the matter, and therefore she is more than happy for you to call her tomorrow and take her to a movie," Dean cut across with a smirk.

"But I—wait, what?"

Dean chuckled at the double-take.

"She…She still wants to go out with me?"

"Yep. Although," Dean stood and looked Sam over in mock appraisal. "We're gonna need to get you home and showered first."

Sam swatted his leg but got to his feet, eyeing the ravine with new determination. "Thanks, Dean," he said softly, smiling shyly up through his bangs.

Dean ruffled his hair. "What are big brothers for? I keep telling you I'm awesome, Sammy."

Sam ducked out from under his hand but was still smiling. "Yeah, maybe you aren't so bad," he allowed.

Dean grinned, and moved to follow his little brother down the ravine.


	16. Here I Go Again--On My Own

_This chapter is Sam's first night at Stanford, and is sort of a sequel to one of my other stories, "He's Not Your Kid". You don't need to have read that one to follow this one—it mostly just tells you where Sam's graduation gifts came from. If you wanted to go read it, though, I wouldn't talk you out of it._

* * *

Sam stood in the doorway of the empty room, a heavy, nauseating weight settling in the pit of his stomach. The room was dull and spartan—two desks, two chairs and a bunk bed were crammed into the small room, overpowered by the stark white walls. It was thoroughly uninviting, and though he'd stayed in places that were much worse, he hadn't expected his first night at Stanford to be so…dreary.

To be honest, he wasn't sure what exactly he was expecting. He'd never been to college before. And yeah, he knew he was early—the semester didn't actually start for another two months—but in his head he'd pictured more people around. Voices, laughter, music…maybe some color.

He'd graduated all of two days ago, and the bulk of those two days had been spent on a bus getting out here. He'd enrolled in summer classes, which started next week, and between that and his scholarship, he was allowed to go ahead and move into the dorm. Which meant hot water and a bed, though meals were on his own. He studied the bunk beds, realized he hadn't actually stepped into the room yet, and set his duffel on the end of the bottom bunk. After a moment's indecision, he sat down on the bare mattress. It looked like he was going to have to find some sheets. That was new. He'd never had his own sheets before. He'd never lived somewhere they weren't provided.

He should probably shower and wash off two days' worth of bus smell. He was hungry too, but what energy he had left drained away at the thought of venturing back out into the night. He looked around the empty room again. The door of one of the closets hung open, and Sam knew there wasn't enough stuff in his duffel bag to come close to filling one. The emptiness of the room was starting to overwhelm him, driving home for the first time how truly alone he was. No matter what kind of flea-ridden, rat-infested dump they might end up living in, those motel rooms were always home. They had his stuff. They sometimes had Dad. They always had Dean. This room was clean and bright and empty, and it was going to stay that way.

Sam had always thought that he wanted out, to be on his own and figure out life, but now that it was actually here, he felt lost. He'd never been actually alone before, and it was with a jolt that he realized he didn't know how. For a long moment, he contemplated just running out and finding the next bus and getting the hell back home. No. He shook his head and stood. Dad had made it abundantly clear that he didn't want Sam coming back, and even if he hadn't, Sam hadn't worked this hard to come this far and just quit. He dug through his bag, coming out with the iron cross Dean had made him as a graduation present. A nail from one of the room's previous occupants poked out of the concrete above the desk, and Sam hung the cross on it, shifting it carefully to center it. He sat back down on the bed. That was a little better. He pulled out a jacket and flung it over one of the chairs, then a towel he tossed over a hook by the door. If he could make it look more like someone lived here and less like a brightly lit prison cell, maybe he'd feel less like a deer in the headlights.

It helped a little bit. He didn't actually have that much stuff. He'd have to find hangers for his clothes, and, again, sheets for the bed. It wasn't the messy clutter of plaid and guns and junk food that he was used to, but he could work with it. He sat down again, a sudden lump in his throat at the mental image of Dean sprawled out across the other bed reading a car magazine and throwing french fries at him. The sleeve of a worn black hoodie—Dean's other graduation present—peeked out of his bag, and Sam grabbed it and balled it up, laying on his side and pillowing his head with the hoodie that still smelled like his brother after two days on the bus. He could do this, he could do this, he could really, really do this.

His cell phone was digging into his leg, and he pulled it out and stared at it. He was supposed to call Dean and tell him he'd made it. A mist settled over his eyes, blurring the numbers, and he dialed quickly and jammed the phone between his ear and the hoodie. His throat felt tight and he sniffed once and coughed, trying to clear it. Dean picked up halfway through the second ring.

"Sammy?"

"Hey, Dean," Sam replied softly.

"Hey. You alright?"

A corner of Sam's mouth quirked up. There hadn't been too much point trying to make his voice sound normal. Dean could always tell. "Yeah, I guess." He paused. "I made it."

"I gathered that. How was your trip?" Sam talked for a little while about the bus ride, how long it felt, where they'd stopped, and the lady who got on in Kentucky and played the ukulele in the back. By the time he was done, his voice and throat felt normal again.

"You met your roommate yet?" Dean asked.

Sam swallowed. "No. He doesn't get here until August."

"Finally got your own room, huh?" Dean chuckled.

"It's so empty," Sam said. "You know I didn't know I had to bring my own sheets?"

"Huh." Apparently that was news to Dean too. "Well, listen. I know the Winchesters are kings of thrift store shopping, but spring the money for new sheets, huh? You never know where that kind of crap has been."

"Dean, you've slept in the same motels I have, right?"

"Okay, so they may not wash 'em often, but they've got to some of the time. I'm just saying. New life, new sheets—it's a good investment. Trust me on this one."

Sam smiled. "New sheets. Got it."

"And a pillow. Get a new pillow."

Sam's smile widened. "Yes, Dean."

"Don't get smart with me," Dean snapped, though Sam could hear him smiling. "I'm the big brother. I know these things."

Sam laughed a little at that, and he knew that was what Dean had been going for.

"So, hey," Dean went on. "I was at this bar last night, right?" Sam settled into his hoodie-pillow and listened to Dean ramble about the best burger he'd had in years, the complete suckers he'd beaten at pool, and the gorgeous redhead who asked him to dance.

"Dean," Sam warned, wondering just how much detail he was going to get.

Dean laughed. "Don't worry, little brother, I'll keep it PG. Some things aren't fit for your virgin ears."

"Shut up," Sam grinned.

He talked a while longer about nothing in particular—the Impala, something he'd seen on tv, pie—and though he kept it casual, Sam noticed he was meticulously avoiding any mention of Dad or hunting, and he was grateful.

"Get some sleep, kiddo," Dean said, cutting short a story about some guy at the laundromat wearing a skirt and a pajama top.

"M'good," Sam protested, realizing he'd closed his eyes and not quite sure when that had happened.

"Dude, I can hear your eyes closing from here," Dean argued. "Get some rest," he said gently. "And a shower."

Sam cracked one eye. "How did you…?"

"I've been telling you for years—big brother knows everything. Life is so much easier when you just accept it." Sam snorted and Dean chuckled. "Sleep, shower, buy some sheets." There was a long pause. "You're gonna be fine, Sammy."

Sam's eyes drifted shut again and he swallowed down another lump that wasn't quite as painful as before. "Okay. Thanks." Deep breath. "I miss you, Dean."

"Don't be such a girl, Samantha." Dean-speak for _I miss you too_ , and Sam laughed. Another pause and Dean's voice came back more seriously. "I'm always here, man. You call if you need anything."

"'kay," Sam said sleepily. "I will. G'night, Dean."

"Goodnight, little brother."


	17. A Boy, A Girl, And A Graveyard

Dean looked at his watch with a sigh. Eleven o'clock. Sam had been 'on a walk' for three hours. Okay, fine, his brother was twenty-two and a big boy now, but worrying about Sam was Dean's job. It would be even if his girlfriend hadn't burned to death in front of him a week ago.

Dean wasn't sure what he was supposed to be doing here. Hunting down the thing that killed Jess and their mom, yeah. Taking care of Sammy, _obviously_. It was just that after a few years apart, he was still trying to figure out what that looked like. Sam had grown up. It used to be, Sad Sam needed attention—let him talk it out, reassurance from an awesome big brother, and maybe some manly hugging, depending on how bad he was hurting. This definitely qualified as pretty freakin' bad, but Sam didn't react the same way he used to. He'd clammed up, barely saying a word that didn't have to do with hunting the thing. He pulled away whenever Dean reached out, a new independent streak keeping him at arm's length. He didn't want to eat, didn't want to sleep and drifted around listlessly, which, yes, that part was familiar, but there wasn't much Dean could do if Sam wouldn't let him.

Dean looked down at his watch again. "Screw it," he muttered, scooping up his jacket and heading for the door. No point sitting here running a chick flick inside his head when Sammy was out there hurting. He'd figured the kid out once before. He could do it again.

Outside, he pulled his jacket in a little tighter against the cold and considered the parking lot. Sam had gone off on foot, but there was no telling how far he'd gotten in three hours. "If I were a little brother, where would I be?" he said, sliding behind the wheel of his baby. He had a pretty good idea.

A few minutes later he was pulling up outside the cemetery, and the picked lock on the gate made him smile. His big brother instincts weren't that far off after all. His smile faded as he got inside. Sam's outline was clearly visible ahead, slumped on his knees in the damp grass. He didn't look like he'd moved for hours, and the stupid kid had come out without his jacket. Dean moved forward, making enough noise to announce his presence. Sam didn't turn, but he didn't startle when Dean stopped beside him.

He didn't look up either. He kept his eyes—dry and hard and far away—on Jess's grave in front of him. The headstone was new and still shone in the moonlight, and the flowers and notes laid around it hadn't had time to wilt or fade. Just another reminder of how recently she hadn't been there.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said softly, dropping a hand to the back of Sam's neck. Sam made a noise that might have been an acknowledgement. Neither of them said anything for a long moment. Sam's skin was cool under Dean's hand, and he squeezed his neck once and patted him on the shoulder. "You wanna head back to the motel?" Sam made another noise that sounded a lot like the first one, but Dean was pretty sure it was negative. "Come on, man. You're gonna freeze out here." Sam didn't resist when Dean grabbed him under the arm and pulled him to his feet.

On the way back to the car, Dean shucked off his jacket and wrapped it around Sam's shoulders. Sam grumbled a protest under his breath about being able to take care of himself, but he tugged the jacket in a little tighter. After a silent ride back to the motel, Dean steered Sam inside and sat him down on the end of his bed. "Here," he said, tugging a pair of Sam's sweats out of his bag and holding them out. Sam shook his head. "Dude, you're soaked and muddy from the knees down. Put 'em on or I'm yanking off your jeans and doing it myself."

Sam glared at him, then snatched the pants from his hand. "I'm not five," he snapped, balling up his wet jeans and tossing them forcefully at the corner before tugging the sweatpants up around his hips and dropping back onto the bed.

"Great. That mean you're gonna eat something without me having to hold you down and force feed you?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Dude, you gotta eat something," Dean said, a slight pleading tone creeping into his voice. Sam said nothing. "I'm worried about you, man." There. He'd admitted it.

The first flicker of emotion he'd seen in days danced across Sam's face. "I know," he said softly.

Huh. Okay, responding. This was good. Cautiously, like he was trying not to spook a wounded animal, Dean moved to sit next to Sam. Their legs brushed together, and Dean let out a relieved breath when Sam didn't move away.

"I just…" Sam stopped, drew in a shaky breath. "Dean, I don't know what to do." He finally looked at Dean, and inside suddenly watery eyes was a two year-old clutching at his sleeve and begging ' _It hurts, Dee. Make it better?_ '

"You don't have to do anything, Sammy," Dean said warmly, reaching up to rest a hand on the back of his neck. "You can cry, or start throwing stuff—hell, you can punch me if you need something to hit—we can go out back and shoot out some windows or you can curl up right here and sleep for a week." He squeezed Sam's neck reassuringly. "Whatever you need to do, man. Nobody's gonna think any less of you for grieving." Truth was, he was a little worried that Sam _hadn't_ cried yet. Sure, there had been some red eyes after suspiciously long showers, but holding it in had never worked for Sam, and Dean was afraid he was going to crack sooner or later. He hitched a small smile onto his face. "Just let me take care of you while you do it, huh?"

Sam sniffed and nodded, the muscles in his neck relaxing under Dean's hand. "Yeah. I just…It's like I can't wrap my head around it, you know?" he said shakily. "It's too much to—" He sniffed again, blinking to clear his eyes and sending tears trickling down his cheeks. "I forget sometimes, and think she's just back at the apartment or wherever, and then it'll hit me again, and…She's gone, Dean," he whispered. "She's really gone. I—" Whatever he was going to say next was lost in a sob, and Dean grabbed him and pulled him into his chest as it finally all came out.

Dean wasn't sure how long he held onto him, but he held on tightly and might have even rocked him a little as Sam cried a week's worth of tears and then some into his shoulder. Sam finally cried himself out, and he was so still in Dean's arms that he wondered if he'd cried himself to sleep.

Sam's fingers slowly untwined from where they'd been clutched in Dean's sleeve, and he pushed himself upright, wiping at his nose. His eyes were dry now, and clearer, his cheeks a little red. "Sorry," he muttered, eyes falling on the wet patch on Dean's chest.

Dean looked down to follow Sam's gaze, then rolled his eyes. "Dude, shut up," he said, looping an arm around Sam and tugging him back in to lean on his shoulder.

Sam gave a small snort. "What happened to 'no chick flicks'?"

It was Dean's turn to snort. "No chick flicks means you getting all weepy when I remember what kind of girly coffee you like. This? Totally doesn't count. And honestly?" he added. If Sam felt safe enough to sob all over his shoulder, he could probably be a little vulnerable here too. "The not crying thing was starting to freak me out a little. Grieving's totally normal, dude. Rules are different."

Sam sniffed again and shifted to lean more comfortably on Dean's shoulder. "Thanks," he whispered after a minute.

"Whatever you need, little brother," Dean assured him. A glance down at Sam's flagging eyelids and he shifted his grip to lower him down onto the mattress. He really would have liked to get the kid to eat something, but this would do for now. Baby steps.

Sam's eyes fluttered open again as Dean tucked the blanket from the other bed around him. "Mm," he grunted, tired limbs moving to push himself back up. "No, m'not…M'not tired."

"Dude, you're running on empty," Dean replied, not needing any effort to push him back down again.

"No," Sam protested. "Keep seeing…I don't wanna sleep," he slurred.

"I know," Dean soothed, running a gentle hand through Sam's hair and making his eyes droop closed just like when he was little. What little sleep Sam had gotten these days was cut short by screaming and visions of Jess and fire. "Don't worry. No nightmares tonight, Sammy." He toed off his boots and crawled over Sam to the empty side of the bed. "I gotcha," he promised, laying down and draping an arm over Sam's shoulders.

Sam muttered something incoherent and rolled over, curling to fit into Dean's shoulder. His breathing evened out into sleep, and within minutes was sleeping more soundly than Dean knew he had in a week. Dean smiled, stretched out an arm to get the lamp, and let his own eyes drift shut. Turns out grown up Sammy wasn't that different after all.


	18. The Future Screaming In My Head

Sam was brushing his teeth when a wall of fire crashed through his brain like a tidal wave. He felt a distant pain in his knees and a dull throb at the side of his head somehow different from the fire, then the vision was playing in super hi-def surround sound and he was gone.

 _Her hand lifted the remote and the television went off. The room was suddenly dark, lit only by the street lamp outside the window and the occasional flash of color from the music festival in the park across the street. With the TV off, she could hear faint strains of music and the cheers of an appreciative crowd, and a rustling in the bushes as the dog started digging in the flowerbed again. She stood with a tired sigh and headed for the back of the house, yelping in surprise when tripped over a lump of fur on the floor. She caught herself on the edge of the table, knocking the mail to the floor. "Pepper!" she hissed. "The whole point of the dog bed was so you'd stop sleeping where people are trying to walk." Pepper whined and licked her hand, and she reached down to ruffle her ears. She stood and put the mail back on the table. Wait…if Pepper was in here, then what…? Heart beating faster, she turned around to stare at the window. The rustling beneath it continued, then grew louder as a shadow poured into the room, blocking out the streetlight, the music, and even the sound of Pepper barking beside her. There was so much pain, and so much blood, and she was choking, bleeding, screaming, fading…_

"Sam!"

Pepper was barking. Someone was screaming. It was dark and it HURT.

"Sammy!" Someone was grabbing his shoulder, shaking him, and something cold and hard was pressing into his face. "C'mon, Sam, snap out of it!"

The voice sounded worried, and the screaming stopped just as Sam realized he was the one doing it. The voice…"D'n?" He cracked his eyes open to see the faded blue tile of the bathroom floor and his brother's knees in front of his face.

"Sam." Dean sounded relieved, and gentle hands wrapped around Sam's shoulders, pulling him carefully up until he was seated, propped against the bathtub. Dean's face swam into view, the concern in his eyes belying the relief in his voice. "You okay?" His hands came up to hold Sam's face his head to study his eyes and frowning as he brushed at something sticky on the side of his face.

"Dean—" The vision wasn't quite finished, and he was hit with a final stab of pain, a parting glimpse of a girl's hand lying in a pool of blood, and Dean was spinning him around to face the bathtub as a wave of nausea surged up his throat.

He heaved into the tub, Dean holding him up with a hand on his forehead, the other hand rubbing circles on his back. "Just breathe, Sammy," he soothed. "Let it out. You'll be fine."

When he was done, he slumped down with a moan, resting his head against the edge of the bathtub. "You done?" Dean asked. He nodded, tensing as he felt Dean move away from him. He was back in an instant, however, a cup of water in his hand. "Here. Wash that taste out of your mouth before it makes you puke again."

Sam grimaced but took the cup, swishing the water in his mouth and spitting it into the tub.

"Better?" Dean asked. He handed over a cool, wet cloth.

"Mm," Sam grunted, taking the cloth and wiping stray flecks of vomit and toothpaste from his chin. Carefully, he turned to look at Dean, his head pounding in protest at the movement. "Dean, it was a vision."

Dean snorted. "Ya think? Here." He held out two pills and the glass of water again. "Take these."

"No," Sam protested, pushing at Dean's hand. "No, she's gonna die, we gotta," he swallowed. "We gotta find her."

Dean sighed. "Okay, tell me what you saw. It's the same shadow thing that brought us to town, right?"

"Yeah," Sam agreed, catching himself before he could nod and make his head scream at him again. The visions always hurt more when they were about something he'd seen earlier. "It was, um, it was dark. There was music playing in the park across the street. The thing was outside—she thought it was the dog. It kinda…poured through the window. I don't think it had a body, it just looked like, like dark."

Dean grimaced. "Well, that may narrow down what the thing is, but doesn't really help us find her."

"No," Sam swatted an impatient hand at Dean, rubbing at his eyes with the other hand. "There was…" He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to remember. "There was mail. On the table." He screwed his eyes up with effort. "Sharon," he said, dropping his hand. "Sharon DeWitt. I saw a water bill."

"Okay," Dean nodded. He thrust the pills at Sam again. "You take these and get some rest, and I'll see what I can find."

"No," Sam argued, pushing at him again. The pills took care of the pain, but they made him sleepy. He needed to concentrate if they were going to save Sharon.

"So, you're telling me you can stand up without face-planting into the sink again?"

Sam glared, grabbed the tub and hoisted himself up. His head screamed, his vision grayed out, and next thing he knew his face was in Dean's shoulder, his brother the only thing keeping him upright.

"Come on, Sam," Dean said without even a hint of I-told-you-so. He pulled one of Sam's arms over his shoulder and carefully steered him back to the bedroom.

"No, but, Dean…" Sam whimpered. The motion made the pain in his head shoot up to astronomical levels, and an involuntary tear slipped down his cheek.

"Sam," Dean said gently, lowering him to sit on the bed. "We're gonna find Sharon, okay? You said it was dark in your vision, right?" Sam nodded miserably. "It's eight in the morning, man. We've got plenty of time to track her down."

Sam said nothing, considering.

"And with a name? I'll have her tracked down by the time you wake up," Dean assured him.

"I can help," Sam offered weakly.

"I got it, bro," Dean said.

He pressed the pills into Sam's hand, and this time, he accepted them. He leaned back in the direction his of pillow, trusting Dean's hand to keep him from thumping into it too hard. He wiped at the wetness on his face, realizing the one tear had flowed into many, and was surprised to find Dean's hand already there.

"Just let me get this for you, huh?" he heard Dean say. He tilted Sam's head, and Sam hissed as something cool and wet dabbed at his forehead. "Looks like you hit the sink on your way down," Dean explained. "Don't think it'll need stitches, but it's going to leave a pretty good bruise. Good thing you've got all that girly hair to cover it up."

"Shut up," Sam muttered, hearing the smile in his brother's voice. He lay in silence for the next few minutes, focusing on breathing and not crying and how soft the pillow was under his head. He could feel the pills kicking in, and soon the pain was lessening with each breath, and the only thing he could feel was Dean's fingers. They were cool and calloused and surprisingly gentle, and he was pretty sure Dean was done with the wound on his head, but found he didn't mind their soft brushing through his hair.

"Oh, Sammy," Dean sighed. "What the hell is going on with you, man?" If there was any doubt that Sam wasn't supposed to hear that, it disappeared when he couldn't help tensing at the words and Dean's hand stilled in his hair. All this psychic stuff scared the crap out of Sam, and he was terrified that whatever was going on inside his head was quietly freaking Dean out too.

He felt a light thump on top of his head—more of a soft pat, really. "That would have been a slap if your head wasn't about to split open," Dean informed him. "And you're supposed to be asleep. But, for the record: I didn't say that because I'm scared of you, you moron. I know that's what's going on under that ridiculous mop of hair, so just stop it."

A corner of Sam's mouth twitched up against the pillow. Dean had always had his own kind of big-brother mind-reading powers.

"I said it because I'm sick of something hurting you that I don't know how to stop," Dean continued, much softer this time.

Sam's eyes burned hot behind his eyelids, and one more tear came trickling down his cheek. The medication was really kicking in now, and he knew he no longer had the capacity to say what he wanted to, but his hand wormed its way out from under the covers and found Dean's knee. He squeezed it as warmly as he could, then left it resting there as unconsciousness finally claimed him. Before he was all the way out, he felt Dean's fingers resume their gentle carding through his hair.


	19. Mixed Messages

The night was suddenly silent as the growl of the Impala shut down. With a look over at the passenger's seat, Dean sighed and swung the door open. He walked around and opened the other door, putting out a hand to catch Sam as he listed to the side. "C'mon, Sam, we're here."

"Huh?" Sam said, looking up from the dashboard. His eyes were glazed over, not nearly as focused as Dean would have liked, and still glistening with tears.

"Motel. Inside. Bed." Dean said. Small words were probably better right now. He grabbed Sam under the arm and guided him out of the car, using his other hand to stop Sam's head from hitting the door frame on his way up. Concussing himself even further was all the kid needed right now.

Once inside, he sat Sam on the edge of his bed. He leaned to the side a little, but once Dean was sure he wouldn't topple to the floor, he left him there to run out to the car for the first aid kit, grumbling the whole way about ghosts and headstones, and whose bright idea was it to use granite for the freaking things in the first place?

Sam was still where Dean left him, staring dejectedly at the floor as tears continued to drip down his cheeks. He wiped at his eyes and sniffed as Dean sat beside him, wincing when Dean started brushing at the hair obscuring the sluggishly bleeding lump on the back of his head. "M' head hurts," he complained.

"I know," Dean said, being as gentle as he could. "Just let me get it cleaned up, okay? I don't think it's going to need any stitches."

"Why's m'head hurt?" Sam persisted, swatting at Dean's hand.

"Ghost. Tombstone. Concussion. Ring any bells?"

"No," Sam shook his head. "No bells. 'S too loud, an' I've got a headache."

"Okay." Dean continued working, wiping away the blood and dirt in Sam's hair.

"Dean?" Sam asked after a minute.

"Mm?"

"Why'm I crying? I don't think I'm sad."

Dean sighed. "That'll happen sometimes with a concussion," he said. "Happened to me once on a hunt with Dad. I cried for like three hours—drove him up the wall."

"Oh." A pause. "Wait, I have a concussion? Zat why my head hurts?"

"Yeah, genius," Dean snapped. This was going to get old real quick. He finished with the bandage on Sam's head and looked down when Sam sniffed again, tears flowing faster down his face. "What?"

"You don't have to be mean about it," Sam said, looking hurt.

Dean just stopped himself from rolling his eyes and reminded himself this wasn't Sam's fault. "Okay, Sammy, I'm sorry." Sam sniffed again. "I didn't mean it like that." Sam didn't look convinced, and Dean did roll his eyes a little this time. "I'm mad at the stupid ghost that hurt you, and it came out like I was mad at you. I'm sorry." Freaking little brothers with their emo concussions…

"Okay," Sam said, smiling a little through his tears. "Thanks." The smile held for a few seconds before his face crumpled and he started crying even harder.

"Whoa, whoa, Sammy, what's wrong?" Dean asked, concern ratcheting up a notch. The crying thing _did_ happen with concussions sometimes, but he was starting to think maybe they should have gone to a hospital.

"Just, you're so…" Sam sniffled and gestured at Dean. "You're such a good brother, you know? An' you got stuck with me."

"Sam, what are you talking about?"

Sam tilted his head, giving him a look that was a little hard to interpret through the tears and the snot and the glazed expression, but probably meant Sam thought whatever he was saying was obvious. "I broke the world, Dean," he explained. He looked sadly up to the ceiling. "There was Ruby, an' I lied to you, an' then the whole…" He shook his head and closed his eyes. "The motel room," he finished in a small voice. He groaned and slumped over, landing face first in his pillow. A muffled moan rose up from the pillow before he turned his head to the side. "I didn't wanna do it," he sighed. "When I got to convent, my head was clearing up, an' I didn't wanna do it, an' I wanted to call you an' see what I should do, but you…" _Sniff_. "So I figured, what the hell, you know?" He closed his eyes and turned to wipe his nose on the pillow. "Worked out real well, didn't it?" He turned again to look up at Dean, defeat and misery etched into every line of his face. "How can you even be in the same room as me?"

"Sammy…" Dean said softly, laying a hand on his back. He knew the kid had been beating himself up over the whole Apocalypse thing. With, he grudgingly admitted, more than a little help from him. Yeah, so, Sam had made some mistakes, but good intentions (and/or demonic influence) had been behind all of it. The anger was just easier. And, okay, maybe he thought Sam was dealing with it. Outwardly, he'd seemed mostly okay. Dean snorted. Yeah, wonder where he learned that from? And emo concussion or not, all this crap had to be rattling around somewhere in his brain for it to be pouring out now. He wasn't even mad at Sam any more…not that he'd actually gotten around to mentioning that. "It's not your fault," he added.

Sam snorted disbelievingly and continued crying into the pillow.

"Okay, it's kind of your fault," Dean amended. "But it's kinda mine too." Sam turned one watery eye up to look at him. Dean shrugged and tried for a casual smile. "Last seal can't break if the first one's still there, you know? So, yeah, kind of you, kind of me, but personally? I blame Ruby. Maybe Zachariah. Lucifer," he added thoughtfully. "Mostly Ruby, though."

Sam shifted uncomfortably under his hand. Thinking back over what Sam had said, something new jumped out at him. "Hey, what did you mean, you wanted to call me and then decided what the hell?"

Sam was quiet for a long time. "I got your message," he whispered, so quiet Dean had to strain to hear it. "And I didn't know what else to do. I figured I didn't have anything left to lose."

Dean's hand stilled in the circles he'd started rubbing on Sam's back. "You…You heard me apologize, and you decided to run off with Ruby anyway?"

Sam shifted so that he could peer up at Dean with both eyes this time. "You didn't apologize," he said, bewildered.

"It's hard to get clearer than 'Sam, I'm sorry'," Dean retorted.

Sam's eyebrows furrowed even deeper. "But you…you didn't say that. You said…" He swallowed hard. "You said Dad told you to save me or kill me and you were done trying to save me," he whispered. "Said I was a monster," he muttered, turning back into the pillow with renewed tears.

Dean stared down hard at Sam's shaking back. What the hell? How had he gotten that from…He stiffened as a memory flashed through his head. Zachariah's infuriating smirk and his assurance that Sam was about to get the push he needed to go over the edge…Dean had been in angelic lockdown—there was no way that phone call would have made it out without Zach's say-so. He groaned, cursing himself. How had he been dumb enough to miss that one?

"Sam? Hey, Sammy, look at me," Dean said, careful to keep his tone gentle.

Sam turned his head to blink miserably up at him.

"I did call you that night, after Bobby knocked some sense into me. But Sam, what you heard…that's not what I said."

Sam sniffed again and smiled humorlessly, his eyes dejected and accusatory all at once. "It's been playing on repeat in my head for months, Dean. That's _exactly_ what you said."

"Sammy, no," Dean answered, making the effort to answer calmly. He'd had no idea Sam had heard what he did, and the admission that Sam had been dwelling on those words for months rocked him. Yeah, the wallowing in the guilt was a totally Sam thing to do, but wallowing in this? How was Sam even still here when he thought Dean had said _that_? "I never said that, Sammy, I swear. That freakin'…" Dean growled. "Freaking Zachariah, man, he twisted my message into what you heard. 'Cause I would never say that to you, Sam. _Never_. You know that, right?"

Sam mumbled something into the pillow that sounded like 'I thought I did.'

Dean swallowed down a catch in his throat, squeezing Sam's shoulder. "You know what I really said?" Sam didn't say anything, but his shoulder tensed under Dean's hand as he waited. "What I said was," Dean went on. "That I was pissed at you, but that I shouldn't have said what I said in the motel room. I said I wasn't Dad, that we were still family and all the crap that had happened…it didn't change that." He swallowed. "I said I was sorry."

Sam slowly rolled over to look up at Dean with sad, watery eyes. "You said that?" he asked, his voice just above a whisper.

Dean nodded, tried to smile a little bit.

Sam stared at him for a long moment, then finally seemed to find the confirmation he was looking for in Dean's eyes. To Dean's surprise, his face twisted and he choked out a sob before rolling back into the pillow, crying even harder.

"Sam?" Dean grabbed his shoulders and pulled him upright. Sam didn't resist, but continued to cry. "Sammy, what's wrong?"

"You…you tried to get me to come back an' I still went and…and," he sniffed. "I would've come back if I knew, Dean, I would've!" he said, grabbing at Dean's sleeve desperately.

Dean pulled him forward into a hug. "I know, Sammy. I know." And he did.

"'m sorry," Sam mumbled into his shoulder. "How can you even…" _Sniff_. "How can you even look at me?"

"Sam," Dean said. He pushed Sam away from his shoulder and grabbed his face in both hands, forcing his brother to look at him. He ignored the sudden urge to wipe the runny nose and stared intently into the red, watery eyes that were still a little too much out of focus. "Listen to me. I've never hated you. Okay, yeah, I was pissed at you about what happened—pissed at you for a long time, but I never hated you. And I have _never_ wanted to kill you. And, you know, Ruby and all the sneaking around and the demon blood, the motel room and running off when I thought you'd heard me ask you to come back, and even the freakin' Apocalypse…I forgave you for all that crap, man."

Sam blinked at him slowly, the flow of tears slowing down. "Really?" he asked in a small voice that was equal parts incredulous and hopeful.

"Really. Like I said, I was pissed, and I said some stuff I shouldn't've said, and I'm sorry, but yeah. I forgave you for all that a while ago." He smiled as one corner of Sam's mouth twitched up hopefully. "I guess I could've said something earlier, but…"

Sam smiled then, the first real smile Dean had seen in a while. "Thanks, Dean," he breathed gratefully.

This time when Sam started crying again, Dean just smiled gently and tugged him back into his shoulder. "It's okay, Sammy," he soothed, patting him warmly on the back. "We're okay, little brother. We're okay." Sam tightened his grip on Dean in response and cried a little longer. When he finally pushed back up, there was a peace on his face that hadn't been there for months, and Dean was pretty sure the tears trickling down his cheeks were just the concussion now.

"So are we good now?" Dean asked.

Sam sniffed and wiped at his nose with his sleeve and nodded. "Yeah." He glanced over at the wet, snot-covered patch he'd left on Dean's shoulder. "Sorry about your shirt."

Dean looked down at his shoulder and rolled his eyes. "Well, you're all concussiony, so I'll let it slide. I mean, you're still a giant girl, but you're not usually this weepy."

Sam smiled. "How much longer you think it'll last?" he asked, dabbing at his eyes with a sleeve.

"You stay awake, who knows? So, I'm voting on you getting some rest."

Sam snorted. "Yeah," he agreed. "I could sleep." He closed his eyes and leaned forward to rest his head on Dean's shoulder.

"Hey, no, not on me, man!" Dean protested. He shoved at Sam and sent him flopping down onto the mattress. Sam grunted at the impact, but snuggled down into the pillow. "Here, before you're out all the way, take these." He dug in the kit and fished out a couple of painkillers and pressed them into Sam's hand. Sam obediently put them in his mouth, opening his eyes and lifting his head a little to accept the glass of water Dean brought from the sink.

He lay back down, turning his head to watch Dean settle onto his own bed with eyes that were still glassy, but less teary now. "Go to sleep, Sam," Dean ordered, toeing off his boots and grabbing the laptop.

Sam shut his eyes and turned into the pillow. "Better not be watchin' porn on m'computer," he mumbled.

"Shut up and go to sleep, crybaby," Dean smirked, tossing his pillow over and catching Sam in the face. Sam grunted and grabbed the pillow, holding it to him like a teddy bear, and a minute later he was out, breathing deeply and possibly drooling onto Dean's pillow.

Dean settled back and shook his head, checking the clock in the corner of the screen and making a note to wake Sam up and check on his head in a couple of hours. In the meantime, research. He had a date with Zachariah and an angel blade.


	20. Stone Number One

Dean juggled breakfast into one hand, trying to unlock the door as quietly as he could. Sam had not only still been sleeping when Dean woke up, but he'd been sleeping peacefully—both unusual occurrences these days—and Dean had been loath to break the spell. The kid needed all the rest he could get.

Inside, he realized he didn't need to have bothered with the silence. He could see Sam sitting up in the semi-darkness, so he flicked on the light. "Breakfast," he announced, holding up the bags. "You want bagels or muffins?" When Sam didn't answer, Dean looked up from where he was unloading the bags. "Oh, crap."

Sam was backed against the headboard of his bed, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, muttering under his breath and very determinedly _not_ looking at Dean. "Sam?" Dean asked carefully, moving towards the bed. Crap, crap, crap! And here he'd just been thinking it had been a while since Sam's last…episode, optimistically hoping it meant Sam was pulling the pieces back together, but cynically wondering if they weren't due for another one soon. The part of him that missed Cas just kept losing ground to the part that wanted to rip every single one of those stupid black feathers out of those stupid black wings one by one. "Sammy?"

"No," Sam said, addressing the floor.

"What? Sam—" He took another step.

"No!" Sam said again, more forcefully even though his voice was shaking. "Please," he added quietly.

Dean stopped, feeling torn. Apparently, his moving closer was upsetting Sam, and he didn't want to make it any worse, but the ache to help his brother was physically painful. "Sam," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "C'mon, man, talk to me. What's wrong?"

"Don't," Sam said shakily. Oh, hell, he was starting to rock back and forth now.

"Don't what?"

"Don't be Dean," he whispered. Before Dean could process that, Sam hurried on. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I won't do it again!" He buried his face in his knees, fingers threading up to twist agitated knots in his hair. Dean tried to ignore the wrenching in his gut and took advantage of the fact that Sam wasn't looking to cross the room to the foot of the bed. "I won't. I won't, I promise," Sam's words tumbled out frantically. "Just stop it, please."

"Stop what? Sammy, it's just me, I promise. I'm not doing anything." What was going on inside his head?

Sam shook his head violently and looked up, eyes swimming with tears just waiting to spill over, and he flinched when he realized Dean was closer. "Look, anything, anything else, please," he offered desperately, pushing himself harder against the headboard as he tried to back away. "That…that thing with the fingernails—I know you enjoyed that one. Or…" He flinched again and swallowed hard. "It's been a while since you…since you skinned me. I'll let you do that again—I'll even do it without screaming this time, just, please…"

Dean's face fell. Hell. Sam thought he was back in Hell. And he thought Dean was…Dean growled. Forget the freaking wings—there were no curse words in the universe strong enough for how much Dean was hating Cas for doing this to his brother, but a deep-fryer full of holy oil and some matches seemed like a good place to start.

Sam hadn't had a hallucination this intense since the whole shooting at the devil in the warehouse thing, and he didn't even notice Dean dropping onto the edge of the bed—too busy coming up with a list of alternative tortures for his imaginary prison buddy to pass the time with. "You could even…" Sam shut his eyes and drew in a shaky breath. "You could even be Jess again, if you wanted. I won't fight you on it." He opened his eyes, utterly defeated, and Dean could hear his heart shattering into pieces. "Just, _please_ ," Sam begged, his voice a broken whisper. "Please don't be Dean. I can't…"

"Sam," Dean said, and Sam recoiled, looking down again. Dean grabbed his face with both hands, taking more self-control than he thought he had to keep his hands gentle as he turned his brother's face towards his. "I'm not Lucifer," he said, his voice coming out rough over the pain bubbling up from his stomach and lodging in his throat. "It's really me, and you're not in Hell, I swear." Sam jerked in his hands, trying to pull away. "Hey," Dean said, gently but firmly. He dropped one hand from Sam's face to grab his injured hand. "Remember this?" He pushed his thumb into the still-healing scar. Sam's pitiful whimper of pain shook his resolve, but he pressed harder. "Remember?" he asked again. "Remember this different kind of pain?"

Sam was staring down at their hands, and Dean could tell he was trying. "This isn't Hell. We got you out, we got you safe, and Lucifer isn't touching you again. This is real, man. _I'm_ real. Stone number one, remember? You can trust me."

Sam snatched his hand away from his brother and dug into the wound with his fingernail, biting his lip as he drew blood and making Dean wince. Sam looked up, blinked once like he was waiting for something and swallowed. "Dean?" he asked, his voice cracking.

A weight lifted off Dean's shoulders as the clarity settled back into Sam's eyes. "Yeah, Sammy. It's me," he replied, smiling warmly despite his own voice shaking.

"Dean," Sam choked. Color rose in his cheeks, his eyes filling with shame as he quickly dropped his head again. "I'm sorry, I—" but that was as far as he got before a sob burst out of his throat.

"Hey, hey, hey, it's alright. C'mere," Dean said, a whole different weight dropping back down on him as he moved closer and pulled his little brother into his arms. Nearly two centuries of Hell memories to deal with, and Sam thought he should be _embarrassed_? "Don't worry about it, man, don't even worry." Sam's fists immediately clenched in Dean's jacket and he leaned into the embrace, his whole body shaking as he sobbed into Dean's shirt—all six-foot-four of him curled up under his brother's chin like he was four years old again.

"It's okay, Sammy, it's gonna be okay," Dean soothed. One of his hands was curled protectively over Sam's head while the other rubbed comforting circles across his back, and though he allowed his face to crumple now that Sam couldn't see him, he didn't stop the string of gentle assurances he whispered in his brother's ear. "Don't worry, Sammy, you're safe. Everything's gonna be fine. I've got you, little brother. I've got you…"


	21. The Hole That's Shaped Like You

Footsteps paused outside the bedroom door, and a corner of Sam's mind recognized them as Amelia, not a threat, before ignoring them. He didn't register the steps moving on.

He was sitting half-inside the closet, legs folded up to fit between the bed and the wall. A partially empty, forgotten beer sat on the floor beside him, and a small cardboard box sat on the other side. He ran a finger along the side of the box, staring at the contents without really seeing them. A dirty magazine and a still-unopened can of shaving cream. A stack of old tapes. Photographs in an envelope that he couldn't bring himself to open and a beat-up leather journal. Along with the keyring clutched in his fist, it was all he had left of Dean.

His brother had been gone eight months, and it hurt just as much today as the day he'd been left alone at Sucro Corp. Maybe even more today—it was Dean's birthday, and they should have been out somewhere with steak and good pie, having a few beers and playing some pool. Instead, Dean was dead and gone without even a body to burn, and Sam was sitting on the floor in a closet trying not to cry. He huffed a humorless laugh and brought the forgotten bottle to his lips. Happy birthday, Dean.

For the millionth time, he tried to talk himself out of his decision not to look for Dean. He wanted his brother back so bad that it hurt. The ache was always there, raw and screaming when he was alone at night, quieter when he played with Riot or held Amelia in his arms, but never actually gone. Sam knew he could find him, knew he could bring him back. There were spells that could be cast, people that could be summoned and bargains that could be arranged. There were even deals that could be made, though he cringed to think what Dean would do if Sam went _that_ far. Hell, he'd already done some of the spellwork and summoning. Enough to confirm that Dean wasn't in Hell, and that…that was what made him pause.

Because if Dean wasn't in Hell, he would be in Heaven. And if Dean was in Heaven…well, what right did Sam have to pull him out? It would be hard, but Sam was confident that he would be able to bring Dean back. But should he? Dean was finally safe, finally at peace, back with their mom and dad and Bobby and who knows who else? Everyone he'd lost, Dean had them back now. He was somewhere he could be happy. Could Sam really be so selfish as to pull him out of _that_ and back into this…this crap? Heaven versus crappy motel rooms and life on the road, monsters and demons and blood and death?

Sam sighed and thunked his head back against the wall. His grip on the keyring was starting to hurt, and he loosened his fingers. Looking down at the small metal ring, he was suddenly assaulted by a wave of memories of riding in the passenger seat of the Impala, Dean beside him singing along to the radio, throwing food at him, teasing him, arguing with him, cheering him up, talking out the next hunt, contemplating the merits of pudding vs. jello, and on and on and on and Sam choked back a sob and curled down into his knees, clutching the keyring even harder.

He wanted his brother. He _needed_ his brother. But for once in his life, he was determined to do what was better for Dean. Dean deserved a chance to be happy. Sam could…Sam could wait. He could stay here and try to do the normal life thing with the girl and the house and the dog, if only because he knew how Dean would react if he followed what his gut so often screamed at him to do and drove the Impala off a cliff so he could join him. It would suck. But he could wait.

He sat up and tugged the box closer, smiling briefly as his fingers ghosted over the shaving cream from so many Christmases ago. He ran his hands reverently over the cover of the journal before they rested on the envelope of photographs. His fingers toyed with the flap before pulling back. Not tonight. Almost of their own accord, his fingers delved deeper into the box, coming back up clutching a wad of what used to be black material. It was faded now to somewhere between gray and purple, the cuffs were worn and the edges were frayed, and it was so threadbare it was almost see-through, but Sam pulled the hoodie out and hugged it tightly to his chest. Dean hadn't worn it in over twelve years, but as he buried his face in it, Sam imagined he could smell a lingering trace of gun oil and aftershave.

He sat on the floor for a long time, crying softly into the faded folds of the sweater. Dean would have called him a big girl, but Dean wasn't here. Dean would never be here again, and Sam _missed_ his brother, and he allowed the quiet tears to fall.

At some point, he managed to drag himself up onto his side of the bed where he drifted into an uneasy sleep. And when Amelia came to bed later, that was how she found him, curled up on top of the covers and clutching a ragged old hoodie to his chest like a teddy bear. Dried tear tracks stained his cheeks, and even in sleep he looked miserable…this time there was no big brother here to make it better.


	22. Alive Again

Dean blinked himself awake in surprise—he hadn't meant to fall asleep at all. He may not have needed sleep as a demon, but his body was feeling it now. A quick glance at the clock told him it had only been two hours—desperate need of sleep or not, his mind was racing too fast to stay down for long. And it was hard to get comfortable—injuries that hadn't killed the demon were taking the time to heal now. Everything hurt. Not that he didn't deserve it, but still. Ow.

He swung off the bed and started wandering, trying and failing to push back the memory of hunting his baby brother through the same halls just a few hours ago. Right—bad idea. Maybe sitting and brooding then—kitchen?

Cutting through the library was the shortest way, and Dean really needed to get out of those corridors, but the back of a tall silhouette slouched in one of the chairs stopped him cold. Sam. There were all kinds of things Dean wanted to say, so many things he needed to say, and not a clue where to start for any of them—never mind that he was the last person Sam wanted to see right now anyway.

His approach hadn't gone unnoticed, though, and before he could back away, Sam's voice drifted up from the chair. "Go 'way, Cas. Tol' you I was fine."

Should he correct him, or just leave? Maybe he could still get out of this.

Sam swung his head around, the glare apparently intended for Cas melting into something a little more apathetic. "Oh. S'you. Hey, Dean." He turned back around.

Well, he didn't seem mad. He didn't seem much of anything, really, and Dean didn't know whether to back off or try to say something. This was kind of uncharted territory. There was a clink of glass, and he realized Sam was answering for him—his good hand was extended behind him, holding out a beer bottle. After a moment's hesitation, Dean stepped forward and took it. "Thanks."

Sam said nothing, just took a long pull from his own bottle. Dean figured that was about as good as he could get for right now, and turned away. He stopped when Sam's hand caught him around his wrist. He turned back to see his brother looking up at him, eyes shining in the semi-darkness. He didn't say anything, but Dean nodded, and after a moment moved to sit down across from him. They drank in silence.

Dean lowered his drink. "Sam, I—" he finally started.

"Shut up," Sam cut him off, gesturing with the bottle in his hand. He sat back in his chair. "S'okay," he said, softer this time. "M'not mad. S'all just…" He gestured vaguely with the hand holding the bottle—at his head, at the room, at Dean and back to his head before giving up and taking another drink.

"Yeah," Dean agreed. Whatever Sam meant, Dean was pretty sure he got it. Still…"You gotta be a little mad." Oh, that's great. Dig your hole deeper there, buddy.

Sam shook his head vehemently, his hair flopping back and forth like a cartoon sheepdog. "Nope." He took another drink, considering. "Maybe kinda freaked out," he admitted, tilting his head to one side. "You _did_ jus' try to kill me with a hammer." Dean's throat tightened, and Sam looked thoughtful, then started giggling.

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Sam, it's not funny."

Sam shrugged. "A hammer," he repeated, and huffed a small laugh. "S'new."

"Dude, how much have you had to drink?" What with the slurred words and the fact they were even _having_ this conversation, Dean had already figured Sam was at least sort of drunk. But the giggling was a little disconcerting.

Sam shrugged again. "Don' know." He gestured with his sling at the end table beside him. "Kind of a lot, I think."

Dean flicked on the lamp beside him and his eyes widened. Empty beer bottles littered the table top, and a glass and a bottle—empty—of the harder stuff were nestled in the middle of it all. Sam wasn't drunk. He was wasted. "Dude…"

"What?" Sam demanded, narrowing his eyes.

Dean opened his mouth and closed it again. "I guess you're entitled," he said sadly. This afternoon alone would have accounted for all that, even without the hell he'd put him through over the last six weeks. "Sammy, I am so sorry."

Sam's face softened. "Wasn' your fault," he said softly. "Wasn' you."

"Yeah, it was," Dean said, looking down.

"Not all'f you," Sam insisted.

Dean opened his mouth, found nothing to say, and closed it again. A sniff drew his eyes back up to Sam's face, where he was surprised to see a thin line of tears trickling slowly down his brother's cheek. "Sam, what is it?" he asked, sitting up straight, fighting down the instinct to reach over and touch him. He doubted Sam would welcome it.

"It was my fault, Dean," Sam muttered sadly, eyes fixed on the bottle in his hand. "All'f it. Today, an' Crowley, an' you d-d-" _sniff_ "dying, an' th' Mark an' everything….Dean, I'm sorry!"

How in the hell was Sam pinning _any_ of this on him? "Sam, it wasn't—" Dean started.

"It was!" Sam insisted, cutting him off. "It was. If I hadn'…I know you didn' mean wha' happened with G'dreel," he murmured. "You didn' know he was gonna do any'f that, an' I shouldn've been so mad."

The jump from the Mark back to Gadreel took Dean a moment to follow, but now he was tracking Sam's argument. "Sam, no," he said firmly. "That doesn't put any of this on you. I crossed a line with Gadreel, man, I know that. I should never have done that to you."

"Saved m'life," Sam mumbled. "An' you were right—'f I had to save you, I would've… _any_ thing, 'f I had to." He set his bottle on the floor and rubbed at his eyes with his free hand. "It's just, after Meg, an', an' L—Lucifer," he shuddered on the word. "G'dreel was…" He sighed deeply, unable to find the words he wanted. "I was jus' mad," he went on softly. "An' I wanted to make you mad too. Tha's th'only reason why I said…I didn' mean it, Dean. Not really." He met Dean's gaze then, bloodshot, watery eyes pleading with Dean's. "You wouldn've gone with Crowley an' got the Mark, an' none'f this would've happened 'f I hadn'…" He sniffed again. "I'm really sorry, Dean. I didn' mean it, I didn'," he repeated miserably.

For a moment, all Dean could do was stare at his drunken, weeping mess of a brother, too shocked to put the right words together. Was this really where Sam's head had been all summer? No wonder he was such a mess! He'd known that Sam's harsh words of nearly a year ago (had it really been that long!?) had come out of feeling betrayed and guilt over what happened to Kevin. He'd wanted to hurt the same way he'd been hurt—and, hell, he had—but Dean had always known that beneath the pain, Sam had never meant it.

"I know I screw everything up," Sam went on, taking Dean's silence the wrong way. "I just make everything worse, an' the stuff I did when I was looking for you…" He huffed a small, bitter laugh. "Like you said, y'already know about that. So 'f you wanna leave, s'okay, I get it. Just, d'you really…" The trickle of tears had turned into a steady stream and he inhaled shakily. "Was I so bad you _really_ pr'ffered Crowley over me?" he asked in a small, desperate voice.

Any reservations Dean had flew out the window before he had time to think about it, and he yanked Sam to his feet and into a crushing embrace. Sam's surprised grunt reminded him of his bad shoulder, and he shifted his grip but didn't let go. "Don't you _ever_ think that, Sammy, you hear me?" he growled. He pulled back, one hand gripping Sam's good arm and the other tilting his face to look at him. "There is nothing you could ever do to make me pick that scumbag over you. _Nothing_. You're not a monster, and not one word of what I said in that dungeon is true. You did some stupid crap, man, I'll give you that, but I sure as hell did too. And that one was all on me"

"B't what I said…" Sam pressed, blinking more tears out of his eyes.

"I know what you said. And I already forgave you for it, man," Dean said firmly. A flicker of hope swam up from behind the alcohol in Sam's eyes and Dean managed a small smile. "Clean slate, remember?"

Sam blinked slowly and nodded once. "Does this…" He paused, sniffed again. "S'this mean we c'n be brothers again?" he asked hopefully. He sounded about five.

Dean really did smile this time, and he pulled Sam back into a much gentler hug. "You've always been m'brother, Sammy." And this time, Sam hugged him back.

"I'm glad you're back, Dean," he said softly. "'m sorry it took so long to find you."

"You saved me, Sammy," Dean reminded him. "You did good."

"You know you've got a clean slate too, right?" Sam said in a hoarse whisper. Dean didn't answer, but his arms drew tighter around Sam. It was a long time before he let go of his brother.

When they finally pulled apart, Sam swayed and stumbled back, sitting down hard in his chair. He blinked up at Dean. "How'd you get up there?"

Dean couldn't help a small snort of laughter. "I think it's time for bed, big guy, c'mon." He bent down and hooked an arm under Sam's good one, pulling him to his feet with surprisingly little effort. He was lighter than Dean remembered.

"'s comfortable here," Sam protested, leaning back toward his chair.

"You're not sleeping in the library, Sam," Dean said, pulling him back upright.

Sam shrugged and slumped onto Dean's shoulder instead. "'s where I've been sleeping mostly," he argued sleepily.

Dean snorted his disapproval. He could picture Sam in increasingly desperate research mode all too well—slouched over the table with a shot of whiskey in his hand until he passed out face down in a book. "Yeah, well, not any more you're not. Big brother's back, which means you're back to eating actual food and sleeping in a real bed."

Sam hummed and didn't argue, and Dean figured that was good enough. In Sam's room he flicked on the light and lowered him gently onto the bed. Sam immediately rolled onto his stomach and nestled his face into his pillow. "Uh-uh, Sammy, on your back," Dean reminded him. "It's bad for your arm, c'mon." Sam grunted a protest, but allowed Dean to roll him onto his back. He pulled off Sam's shoes and tossed them into the corner, filled a glass of water and rummaged through the drawers until he found a bottle of pain medication and set them both on the nightstand. He turned to go and stopped when Sam's fingers looped lightly around his wrist.

"Yeah, Sam?"

Sam blinked his eyes halfway open, which looked like it took some effort. "Dean?"

"Yeah, man, I'm here," he assured him.

"You really are." His thumb rubbed across the back of Dean's hand, and the grip around his wrist tightened. "Please don't be gone when I wake up," he whispered.

Dean swallowed away the sudden tightness in his throat. "I won't, Sammy," he said warmly, reaching out to card his fingers though Sam's hair. "I promise." He figured Sam meant gone from the bunker and his life—not his room, but he nudged Sam over with his hip and sat down beside him anyway. Settling back against the headboard, he toed off his shoes and stretched out a hand to resettle Sam's arm. He patted Sam's chest in assurance of his presence, and Sam's eyes fluttered shut again with an incoherent mumble. A minute later, he was snoring gently.

Dean smiled, leaning back and shutting his eyes. They were such a mess. And he knew—no matter how much of this conversation Sam remembered tomorrow—that there was still more that needed to be said, more to prove and more to heal before they got back to where they should be…but this right here was a pretty good start. Being able to take care of Sam again was warming up things inside that the demon had left cold and dead, and though it hurt to see what Sam had done to himself in his absence, he couldn't help but be warmed even more knowing that he'd pushed himself that far all for Dean. For the first time since waking up in the dungeon, he felt like he was actually alive again. He had a lot left to atone for, but Sam's forgiveness made that weight a lot less crushing. They could get through this. "Thanks, Sammy," he whispered. They'd get each other through.


End file.
